Addicted To A Certain Lifestyle
by SuperWhoLockness
Summary: 22-year-old Sherlock Holmes only has Greg Lestrade who cares for and watches over the young man as if he were his own son. Although he claims he doesn't need friends, Sherlock finds one particular friend who he can't help falling for. The problem? He needs to keep his own self-destructiveness from destroying the only romantic relationship he hopes to have.
1. Chapter One

**A/N**: So this is my first Lestrade/Sherlock based fanfic. **It is not a ship in terms of this particular piece of fanfiction**. I'm not pairing them up like that. I'm aware this chapter is REALLY short but I just want to set an atmosphere first for the rest of the story. There will probably be longer chapters after this one.

**Warnings:**CAUTION! This fic may contain strong language and drug use as well as occasional violence, along with some fluff and other things of that nature. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

**Background Information:**** Sherlock is only 22 in this fanfic and is just starting off as a detective. I tried to keep things in character but obviously because this is original, some things will be OC.  
**

**Other: **_It'll be Johnlock in later chapters so please be patient with me._ _Also, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE send reviews my way! They make me happy and help me write faster. Okay, I think I'm done now. Enjoy! _

* * *

Chapter One

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he listened to the police sirens that wailed irritatingly past the abandoned building he was staying in. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke was thick, clouding the entire place over in a fog-like mist as the young man sat half-slumped against one of the walls by the window that overlooked the street.

He felt every muscle in his body relax simultaneously after injecting the drugs into his forearm. He had done this same routine for almost two years and he experienced the same reaction to it each time; an explosive high before he came crashing down again, sinking into a dark depression. It was a vicious cycle for him. When his depression would hit him one night, he would be looking for something else to lift him up again, and then once the sedative wore off completely, the spiders would weave their sorrowful webs of depression in his head once again and the poison would spread throughout his entire body and soul until it left him incapacitated.

With his bony fingers, he undid the belt around his arm and let it drop beside him before he listened to the slowed beating of his own heart in his head, letting the rhythm lull him to sleep.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the man who had taken over the arduous job of being his guardian after his parents had died when he and Mycroft were both younger. Sherlock was still riding his morphine-induced high, and therefore had no strength to physically fight against Lestrade who carefully lay him on his sofa.

"Mmm…" he simply mumbled tiredly. "How… how did I get here?"

The Detective Inspector looked at him with disappointed and almost sad eyes as he sat down across from him in a chair. "I told you to stay put, Sherlock. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

The young man gave a dismissal wave of his hand. "B'cause staying home is boring. 'M bored of being bored…" his voice trailed off as his hand dropped to the couch.

Greg sighed before he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before his concern replaced the disappointment. "Do you remember how much you took, Sherlock?"

"Unimportant, Lestrade…" Sherlock half smirked, his eyes still closed.

"No! It's very bloody important, Sherlock! I just want to know if I should be taking you to the hospital instead of letting you sleep it off here… now answer me," Lestrade growled impatiently.

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh now. He turned over onto his side, his back now facing the Detective. "Don't worry… I was careful of the amount I put in me…"

Gregory shook his head in a combination of disbelief and relief before he glanced at his watch. "Christ, it's nearly three in the morning. We're talking about this tomorrow so don't think for one second you've gotten out of this scot-free! If you need me – "

"Why would I ever need _you_?"

Lestrade ignored Sherlock's interruption. "If you need me, I'll be in the other room."

Sherlock barely heard the last part of his guardian's sentence as his mind drifted back off to sleep once again.

* * *

When the high had passed, Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes and felt around for his phone. He patted his pants and then reached over and grabbed his phone that was sitting elegantly on the coffee table. As he opened it up, he observed by the time that it was early afternoon and that he had at least four messages, all from Lestrade.

He cleared his throat, becoming increasingly aware of the dryness in it. Sherlock sat upright and opened up the messages as he tried to get his bearings again.

The first message was received around 7:30 this morning.

_Sherlock, got an important call in from Scotland Yard. Had to go in. Message me when you get this. _

Second one, at 9:15.

_I'm serious. Message me when you get up. I want to know you're okay._

Third one was received around 11:45.

_I'm still stuck here, buried in paperwork. Call me and maybe we can meet up for lunch and talk._

That definitely wouldn't have happened anyway, he decided. Sherlock remembered a bit from last night and as per routine, he knew Lestrade would want to talk about him shooting up.

Last message, received about a half hour ago at 1:15.

_If you don't call or message me back soon, I'm going to assume you're dead and if you're not, then I'm going to kill you myself._

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the last text and let out a deep chuckle. When he composed himself again, he finally forced his fingers to text a message back to Lestrade.

_You needn't bother doing that. I've just been asleep. See you when you get home. – SH_

After reading his text over to make sure it was the way he wanted it, the man sent it and then dragged himself into the kitchen to begin making coffee. He couldn't recall how he got home but it didn't seem important at the moment. Anyway, it had to have been Lestrade who found him at his usual stomping grounds and taken him back to the flat. That wasn't so difficult to deduce.

He yawned sleepily as he waited for the pot to brew, setting himself down at the kitchen table. Sherlock's limbs felt heavy like lead as he tried to relax in the chair.

He wanted the feeling back again, the feeling he had last night. The man longed for the euphoria he felt when he had pushed down on the plunger part of the syringe, forcing the morphine into his veins. He had missed that feeling that seemed to make the depression disappear. Although it was momentarily gone, he knew the sadness would return and he didn't care so much for that particular feeling.

Once he had grabbed his coffee and moved his body over to the desk on which his laptop sat upon, he scrolled through his emails, the ones that begged for his help with menial cases. Sherlock ignored them, deciding it'd be best to start on them once his depression started back up; it'd be a nice distraction if nothing else, just typing out replies for hours.

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed but the next time he glanced up, he saw Lestrade sitting in his chair in front of the telly. This made the younger man hesitate, trying to figure out how much time had passed.

"I… thought you were at work?"

Greg looked over and gave the man a sardonic look. "Are you serious? You've only just noticed me sitting here? I've been home for over two hours! It's nearly seven. I'm really glad that you've managed to get yourself up and brew a pot, though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed heavily before forcing his eyes back to the screen of his laptop. "Please, Lestrade. I'm in no mood for this right now."

Lestrade turned his body and chuckled without humor. "_You're _in no mood? Excuse me, Sherlock, but do you think _I _was in the mood to pick your high arse up at that shithole you like to shoot up in?"

"I don't expect you were, no," Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly.

"Damn right I wasn't! You have impeccable timing though, I'll give you that! I had just gotten out of work when you texted me to come and get you!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked over at him. "I texted you…?"

Gregory raised both his eyebrows before he shook his head in disbelief as he had last night. "Oh well this is just wonderful, Sherlock! You can't even remember that you texted me. You must've been high out of your bleeding mind!"

The young man slammed his laptop shut now and stood up before he rounded on his guardian. "Yes, yes, that was the whole point though, Lestade! I went there to get high so I could forget about how much I wanted to end my own life! Yes, I'm well aware of how low that is and yes, I'm also aware of how irresponsible, immature, and self-destructive I am so you can just forget the hour long scolding you're about to give me!" Sherlock yelled in disgust and frustration.

"You have no right to be angry at me, Sherlock Holmes. Do you have any idea how worried I was about you? How worried I always am when you tell me to come and get you?"

Sherlock started to pace and then looked at Lestrade. "I don't _care_ how worried you are! Lest you forget, you're not my parents and news flash in case you came down with a sudden onset bout of amnesia, I don't need parents because I'm over eighteen and you can't keep me locked up in this prison!"

Greg looked up at Sherlock with a slightly softened expression before he glanced back at the television before he distractedly started to play with a thread that was coming out of the armchair. "I know I'm not either of your parents, and I know how old you are, Sherlock," he replied in a softer voice than earlier. "I'm still your guardian though and I'm still the only person who will tolerate and care enough about you to take care of you and keep you alive."

Sherlock's shoulders dropped from their defiant position now and he took a deep breath before he exhaled and turned around, starting back over towards his sofa. "Maybe I don't want to be alive anymore…"

The words hadn't entirely surprised the DI; he had heard the man say them several times before but for some reason, each time still pained his heart.

The first time had been right after Sherlock's parents had died in a car accident together. Greg had been a Sergeant at that time and it had been the first time he had encountered the genius Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had been in a boarding school at the time. Lestrade could still remember what Sherlock's words had been exactly when he had told him both his parents were dead.

"_Well maybe I don't want to be alive anymore either…"_

It had been nearly thirteen years ago when Sherlock was nine years old. Lestrade had been one of the first people on the scene and he had to calm the then young boy. No one in Scotland Yard could figure it out but somehow, Sherlock had managed to escape the car with only a few scratches, one of them fairly deep but not life-threatening.

Since then, Greg had taken him under his wing, adopted him and raised him like one of his own. After the rough divorce with his wife at the time, adopting Sherlock had given him a way to start his life over, in a way. He'd taken care of the boy ever since and once he had started experimenting with various drugs, a process he had repeatedly called an experiment in itself, Lestrade had felt himself beginning to lose trust in Sherlock. He still loved him like a son, no matter what he had done, and he knew that the young beginning detective had a point.

Sherlock was indeed over eighteen and he was at an age where Lestrade legally couldn't hold him hostage at the flat anymore. There was a part of the DI that was terrified to let Sherlock go out into the real world by himself because he had a pretty good feeling that without someone to take care of him, there was a decent chance that Sherlock would not survive very long. _This _was what was stopping Greg for telling Sherlock to move out and make something of himself. It was odd really; Sherlock didn't appear to have any real motivation to move out, nor did he ever tell Lestrade to leave and let him rent out the flat from underneath him.

Maybe there was a part of Sherlock that didn't think he could truly make it on his own as well.

Lestrade shook himself out of his reveries before he shut off the football game and walked over to the crumpled body on the sofa. He placed both his hands on his legs and looked at Sherlock.

"Well, I_ do_ want you alive, Sherlock. You're just starting to crash from the drugs, just like you always do. This isn't anything new and you've felt the same way before but we'll get through this, just like we always do, all right?"

Sherlock chewed thoughtfully on his lip before nodding, seemingly out of arguments for the time being. "You haven't told my brother about last night, have you?"

"No, I know better than to tell him. Anyway, being as how powerful he seems to be already in the British Government, I'm sure he'll find out about you eventually anyway. I haven't told him anything though," Greg promised, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

The young man seemed to search Lestrade's own eyes, obviously making physical observations to decide if the DI was being truthful or not. Once he seemed satisfied with the end result he was looking for, Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling and sighed, already feeling the spiders weaving their webs.

Greg seemed to understand what was going on right now because he grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and covered Sherlock up with it, just like he did when he was a boy. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

In earnest, that was the last thing Lestrade wanted to do right now in Sherlock's current mental state but he at least wanted to give him the option. Much to his relief, however, Sherlock shook his head and rolled over onto his side, his back facing Greg once again.

Lestrade didn't need to be a genius himself to know what this meant; it was Sherlock's way of saying, "_don't talk to me but please don't leave the flat. I need your company." _Even when he didn't say anything for several hours, it must have put Sherlock's mind at ease to know that if he did need to ask Lestrade something or talk to him, the head of Scotland Yard would be there for him.

He remained seated there for nearly half an hour, just in case Sherlock turned back around in need of him. After the half hour was up, Greg stood up again and walked over to his chair in front of the television before he turned it back to finish watching the game but kept the volume at a low level as to not disturb the younger man.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Greg woke up abruptly from a reoccurring nightmare he had been having and quickly looked around. He hadn't even to fall asleep but to his dismay, he observed from the clock on the mantelpiece that it was nearly 3 a.m. He cast a look over to the sofa and felt his heart drop into the depths of his stomach when he saw Sherlock was no longer lying on it.

His adrenaline kicked in now and he stood up swiftly before he looked into the kitchen, thinking maybe he was making himself tea.

No Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Are you here?" he called out to the darkness of the flat.

Greg looking into the bathroom before he only just noticed the blueish-white light that was coming from underneath Sherlock's bedroom. He took a breath and exhaled, calming his panicked heart before he gently knocked on the door.

"Yes, come in…" a solemn voice replied on the other side.

Greg pushed open the door but stayed in the doorway, biting his lip as he observed Sherlock sitting on the bed Indian-style with his laptop out in front of him, the light illuminating the entire room.

"How long have you been awake for?" Greg asked him calmly, his anger and panic fully passed now.

Sherlock sighed to himself but didn't take his eyes off the screen as he tapped out a response to a particularly idiotic email.

"Technically, I've been awake since I woke up this afternoon for the first time. I haven't slept since then. Can't sleep…"

Greg knew this pattern. Insomnia kicked in when the depression did. The two seemed to go hand-in-hand. It had been like this since Sherlock was about thirteen years ago. Lestrade had found different medicines and medications to help the adolescent sleep at night, and sometimes even during the day. Things had changed since then, mostly Sherlock. He refused to take sleeping medications because he claimed they interfered with his thinking and memory processes.

"Do you want me to make you some tea?"

"That will be unnecessary, Greg, but thank you nonetheless."

Lestrade nodded in understanding but then realized that Sherlock probably wouldn't look over at him. "Okay, Sherlock. I'm off to bed, then. I'll text you in the morning to check on you. Try and relax… don't be in front of that screen all night."

Before Sherlock could get frustrated at him for nagging, Greg gently pulled his door closed again except had second thoughts at the last minute and kept it open just a crack before he turned off the lights and the television in the living room and went to his own bed, worried thoughts of Sherlock threatening to plague his nightmares once again.


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Wow! Thank you for reviewing, guys! You're seriously amazing. I didn't think anyone would be interested in this story but I'm glad people are reading it. That makes me feel a bit giddy inside.

Here's the next chapter!

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Chapter Two

.o.o.

.o.

The first pinkish-orangey light of the morning sunrise seemed into 221B as Sherlock stared at his phone. He didn't know what he had been waiting for but maybe somehow, his eyelids would get heavier and he would no longer be able to keep them open anymore; alas, this did not happen. In fact, he had stayed wide awake all night long, much to his dismay.

He could already feel the dark clouds of depression hovering over him, lingering almost tauntingly. The bones in his hands and legs felt as if they had been broken and then set on fire, they ached incredibly. Sherlock fought hard against the other thoughts in his head that were telling him to pull the covers back over him and hide underneath the safety of the sheets all day.

No; he couldn't do that, he mentally decided. Sherlock forced himself out of the comfort of his bed before he trudged into the kitchen to start the coffee. He didn't want any of course. He just wanted to sleep. Sherlock yearned for the feeling of a full REM sleep.

"What are you doing up?" a groggy voice asked him as Greg Lestrade entered the kitchen and sat down at the table, rubbing his eyes.

"Couldn't sleep," the young man answered simply.

The tiredness that had been written all over the DI's face a second ago disappeared and concern replaced it almost instantly. "That's not good, Sherlock. You need sleep…"

Sherlock could already feel himself becoming irritated with the nagging. "I _know _I need to sleep, Lestrade. I can't function properly without it. What I really need is for this depression to go away. It's simply annoying."

"Annoying? You're referring to a serious mental illness as annoying? That's an understatement of the century, if I ever heard one." When he saw Sherlock cast a dark look in his direction, Greg cleared his throat. "Just let me get you some sleeping pills, something you can take at night. Or maybe some antidepressants?"

"No. I won't take pills, I've told you."

Greg looked at him with his mouth agape. "You've taken nearly everything else under the bloody sun, but you won't take some sleeping pills or antidepressants?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, his eyes hurting from strain between staying up all night and looking at his computer screen. "I'm well aware of the drugs I've taken and do not need to be reminded of that. As I've told you at least fifty-four times before, recreational drugs help me think; prescription drugs make me lose focus and my train of thought."

Lestrade stood up and poured himself a cup of the fresh coffee before casting a skeptical look in Sherlock's direction. "I can't believe you defend your own drug taking, trying to validate it by saying that the recreational junk is better for your state of mind! Just unbelievable…"

The young detective didn't say anything at first, already feeling the first side-effects of his insomnia: difficulty focusing on conversations taking place. He rubbed his temples as a sleep-deprievated induced headache began to form. "Please… don't do this right now, Lestrade. I can't handle this right now…"

His voice had sounded pleading but Greg didn't miss the cool edge to his voice. The DI took a sip of coffee and became quiet as he occasionally glanced up his ward. Finally, he felt the need to speak his mind.

"Sherlock, you need to get out. Take a walk around the block. Go to the hospital and do your experiments or whatever it is you do there…"

Sherlock opened his eyes narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You told me I was basically under house-arrest before. Now you're telling me I can go out?"

Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes impatiently. "_For a walk. _I want you back here before I come back from work. Consider yourself under curfew. I should be back around five or six."

"Do you honestly think a bit of fresh air and examining chemical compounds under a microscope will magically make my depression disappear, Lestrade?"

Lestrade finished his coffee before he straightened his shirt out and grabbed his jacket before he looked back at Sherlock as he grabbed the doorknob. "Honestly, I have no idea. I just think that fresh air will do you some good. Just don't make me regret doing this, Sherlock."

Before the young man had time to protest, the DI was out the door and soon out of the flat itself before he made his way towards Scotland Yard. Sherlock was alone again and then thought that maybe going to the hospital wasn't such a bad idea. It might help him focus on something again.

Sherlock took a quick shower before he wrapped the towel around his waist and opened up his closet door, trying to figure out what he felt like wearing that was the least amount of work actually putting on. He settled on a pair of black pants and a royal blue button down shirt. He rolled the sleeves up to his forearms and then put on his coat before grabbing his phone and hailing a cab.

He sat in the back as the cab started towards St. Bart's hospital, ever so slowly due to morning traffic. Sherlock figured he was about six minutes away, traffic pending, when he received a text.

_1 New Message From Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock sighed heavily before he opened it with a not-so-subtle bout of passive aggressiveness.

_Sherlock, I'd like to talk to you. Please come to the Diogenes building at your earliest convenience. Now would be most preferable, however. – M_

The young man growled in frustration. His brother wasn't even giving him an opportunity to ignore him. He was verbally forcing his hand to go there right this minute. He leaned forward towards the cabbie.

"I'd like to go Pall Mall instead, if you please. And _do _try to hurry."

The cabbie nodded obediently before turning at the last minute and started towards the Diogenes building instead of the hospital. Sherlock sighed and shook his head. Seeing his brother had been the last thing the depressed man had wanted to do today. In fact, he was partially worried about his depression getting worse upon visiting Mycroft. Surely, his older brother only wanted to nag him about taking care of himself and warn him to tread lightly.

Once the cab stopped outside of the large building, Sherlock shelled out a fiver before he jumped out and rang the doorbell. He looked up where he knew the small camera most likely was before he gave him a curt nod and a wave. It only took a fraction of a second before someone buzzed him in.

Sherlock reluctantly walked inside and then headed upstairs where he knew his brother would be waiting for him. He pushed open the double cherry wood doors and then made sure they closed behind him before walking over to where the older Holmes brother stood up.

"You've made good time, brother mine," he drawled with a slight smirk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently before he looked at him. "I was on my way to St. Bart's. What is it you want, Mycroft?"

His brother cast a weary look of observation at his younger sibling disapprovingly, but also mixed with a tinge of concern. "Have you been eating at all? You're looking positively skeletal, Sherlock."

"I don't have time for _this_, Mycroft! Why did you summon me?"

Mycroft sat back down in his cream colored chair and anger tinged his eyes. "Fine, then. You want to play this game, Sherlock? A little birdy told me – "

"- You mean one of your spies told you," Sherlock interrupted icily.

Mycroft ignored him. "They told me that you were seen at the abandoned flat on Upper Brook Street! You were… _getting high_?"

"Not as if it's any of your business, _dear brother_, but no. I was not getting high! You can even ask Lestrade. I was talking to my Homeless Network about a case!" Sherlock raised his voice, surprised he was nearly believing his own lies.

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as he put on a tentative smile. "I'm sorry? Homeless Network? What, pray tell, is that?"

"It's an underground network I've started to build up of the homeless but also the very useful who aid me in finding people, places or information that the police are too incompetent to find. It saves a lot of time," Sherlock answered quickly.

That part hadn't been a lie; he really had started a Homeless Network a couple weeks ago. Mycroft looked at his brother in a combination of disbelief and embarrassment before he pulled out his phone. "Would you mind terribly if I phoned Greg Lestrade to verify this information?"

Sherlock had to keep himself stoic despite the slight panic he felt within him. He didn't care if Lestrade knew about his drug use, as he did this most recent time anyway, but it was the fear and panic of the DI knowing Sherlock was lying to his brother about his true intentions at the drug house and having Mycroft force him into hospital.

"Go right ahead…"

Mycroft gave him a bigger smirk before he dialed Lestrade's number on speed-dial and then smiled when he heard the greeting from the DI. "Gregory! So sorry to interrupt your business but Sherlock has just informed me that he wasn't shooting up in that god-foresaken flat on Upper Brook Street; that, in fact, he was only talking to his a member of his… Homeless Network. Can you verify this information is correct, please?"

Sherlock put his shaky hands behind his back, an obvious sign of either not eating or the start of withdrawal. Either way, he couldn't let his brother see. He nearly held his breath, hoping against hope that Greg would vouch for him.

Mycroft's face fell slightly but he forced a smile anyway, regardless if Lestrade couldn't see it. "Oh, it is correct? You're sure? All right, then. So sorry again for the interruption. Goodbye."

Sherlock was able to put on a genuine smirk of his own now. "Satisfied?"

"Deeply," Mycroft drawled sarcastically. It seemed as if he had hoped his younger brother had gotten back into the bad habits of his adolescent years just so he could shove it in his face and guilt-trip him. He tongued his cheek before he spoke again. "You best stay clean, Sherlock. I have eyes _everywhere._ I may still be starting out in the British Government but believe you, me; I'm still more powerful than you could ever imagine."

Sherlock scoffed slightly. "Please, stop with the theatrics, Mycroft. Are we done here? I have far more important places to be."

"I sincerely doubt that, Sherlock. The only place you should be right now is at Baker Street resting and maybe even having a bit of breakfast. Would you like me to call down for something for you? You look peaky."

It was all the younger man could do to not roll his eyes for a third time and just walk out. He didn't have the energy for any more smart remarks so he let his guard down a bit. "The bear thought of food makes me stomach churn with nausea. I'd prefer not to eat anything until it settles."

Mycroft's usual icy glare came down as his worry returned to his eyes. "You haven't slept," he observed, looking at the darkish circles under his younger brother's eyes.

"No, I haven't," Sherlock agreed. "My depression is back with a vengeance and my mind won't turn off. Before you suggest it, I'm not taking antidepressants nor am I taking sleeping pills. In the event of an actual case, I would prefer it if my mind was working at full capacity."

"Sherlock, it's vital you sleep. You cannot live your days without it. You need to stop being so stubborn and just get sleeping pills," Mycroft urged him.

Sherlock closed his eyes to stop the familiar ache before he opened them again. "I already have a very nagging father figure. I do not need another one in my life, Mycroft. I don't doubt that he'll become tired of my insomnia and force something down my throat so you needn't worry so much."

"I'm your brother and we're the only family we have left, Sherlock. I strongly urge you to take proper care of yourself. Damn the future cases, and damn your ability to focus properly! Please, just take the medications Greg Lestrade gives you..."

Sherlock listened to him but he was becoming increasingly bored of his brother's worrying. "You seem to forget that Lestrade adopted me years ago. I'm so glad that you were able to make something of yourself and become the man that mother and father would've wanted you to be but unfortunately, I do not possess the same capabilities as yourself. As far as I'm concerned, Lestrade is the only other family besides you that I have. He was there for me when you were not. Now, if you'll be so kind to excuse me, Mycroft. I'll be going now. Good morning."

His brother was left speechless as Sherlock walked out of the building and headed back to the building before he decided to walk to St. Bart's hospital now. He was sick of being cooped up inside cabs, flats, and expensive government buildings. Sherlock needed fresh air, as Lestrade had said earlier. He breathed in the London air, letting it fill his lungs as if breathing it would magically make the depression disappear. His hands began to tremble a bit more violently now and he was nearly four minutes away from the hospital when he soon felt cold raindrops hit his cheeks in thick spurts.

How appropriate. The weather matched his mood. He didn't even try to protect himself from getting wet as the rain came down harder. By the time he entered the hospital, his dark curls were soaked, as were his clothes. He shivered involuntarily, his body making a feeble attempt to warm him back up again. He cast his eyes downward at the linoleum tiled floors as he made his way up to the Pathology labs.

Upon entering, he did a double take when he realized there was a young woman performing tests of her own. She froze momentarily when she saw the young detective but made no move to leave the room.

"Hello, Sherlock. Wow, you're… incredibly soaked. Is it raining hard outside, then?"

Sherlock took his coat off and set it on a chair before he moved over to a microscope, adjusting it to fit his vision. "Excellent observation, Molly," he replied in a low voice.

She bit her lip and then seemed to shut down before turning back to her test machine that was running blood samples. Sherlock half sighed to himself before he realized he was in need of her, instantly regretting his last remark. "Do you happen to have any substances you need help identifying?"

Molly didn't look at him, keeping her eyes on her machine, perhaps out of bitterness. "There should be a file near you, along with some small bags that Forensics couldn't identify."

Her sudden coldness had no effect on him. In fact, a part of him was grateful for it because it meant she would keep her talking down to a minimum. Sherlock reached over and opened up the manila folder. Inside, there were three small baggies with different powdery substances inside.

Excellent. This would keep his mind occupied for at least an hour or so. It was a short period of time but it was still an hour that he wouldn't be filled with a sadness he couldn't explain. He glanced over at her and nodded curtly before he looked back and put gloves on as he started to work on the figuring out what each of the substances were.

Minutes quickly passed into hours and it was the chirping of his phone that shook Sherlock from his observations. He kept his eyes looking down onto the last mystery powder before he spoke, his own voice sounding foreign to him.

"Molly, can you please bring me my phone?"

Silence.

His cold eyes remained looking through the eyepiece of the scope. "Now would be preferable."

More silence.

Sherlock was about to scold her aloud but when he brought his head around to look at her, she wasn't there; he had the whole lab to himself. He silently wondered how long she had been gone for but didn't concern himself with the details. Another chime from his phone echoed in the room.

The young man stood up and walked over to his coat before he dug out his phone to look at his messages.

_4 Text Messages From DI Lestrade_. He must have not heard the other messages. The timestamp displayed that the messages had been received between 9 and 4. But how could that be? Was it possible it was already nearly five in the evening? Sherlock looked at the time on his phone and sighed when he realized that it was, indeed 5:15.

He opened the first message up:

_9:10am – I only said go for a walk and get some fresh air. Not go see your brother and do God knows what afterward. By the way, speaking of Mycroft, what was all that about having him call me and then making me lie for you? I don't appreciate that at all._

_11:45 – I'm going to Speedy's for lunch. Meet me there?_

_2:30pm – I'm getting worried now, Sherlock. You better not be doing what I think you're doing._

_4:15 – Whatever you're upset about, come back to the flat and we can talk about it. Or at least text me to let me know you're okay. I really am worried, you know. _

Sherlock thought for a few minutes, pondering what he wanted to do next. He chewed on his lower lip before he looked down at phone and started typing out a message back.

_Identifying several chemical compounds for a case. Just finishing up. Be back shortly. _ Sherlock was about to send it when he decided to add:

_Sorry for worrying you._

No, that didn't look right, and Lestrade might not believe it was really Sherlock sending the message. He quickly deleted the last sentence before he pressed the send button and pocketed the phone. He put the gloves back on and decided to finish up figuring out the last powder before cleaning up and taking off.

As he sat on the stool to readjust his position at the microscope, he became painfully aware of how numb he was feeling. Sherlock always thought he had been numb to feelings and emotions but perhaps that had just been more indifference than actual numbness. This numb feeling seemed to come from a darker place inside of him, a place he didn't want to be.

He shoved any intrusive thoughts away as he started to examine the last substance once again.

* * *

Sherlock rubbed his neck achingly as he left the hospital around six after successfully identifying all four of the powdery poisons. He hailed a cab as the rain continue to pour and climbed in the backseat after closing the door.

"Where to? Sir? Oy! I'm talking to you back there!"

Sherlock looked up at him and blinked a couple times before he thought quickly, clearing his throat to buy some more thinking time. He didn't want to go back to Baker Street yet. He didn't really know where he wanted to go. There was Upper Brook Street he could go to but at that moment, he already could hear Lestrade's voice in his head.

"_Don't make me regret doing this…"_

Lestrade had already been hesitant just letting Sherlock go to the hospital. If his guardian found out he went back there, he would never let Sherlock out of his sight again. The young man would never get to breathe fresh air again and he'd be confined to the stuffy flat at 221B.

At any rate, he wanted to ration the leftover mini bottle of morphine that he had in his pocket. He wanted to save it for when he was desperate, and the morphine would only numb him more, and that idea seemed more counterproductive than anything else.

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "Baker Street… 221B Baker Street." He looked out the window as the rain came down harder, hitting the window with a hard sound against the glass. The young detective had a plan and he knew full well it wouldn't exactly be something smart to do to himself but he was convinced it would make the numbness go away.

Without antidepressants or the desire to get any, he needed an alternative coping method. Once the cab stopped outside the flat, Sherlock paid him and then got out before hurrying inside the warm apartment. He made his way upstairs and finally opened the door to the flat he shared with Lestrade. As soon as he walked in, he stopped short, seeing Greg pacing and on the phone.

When the DI saw him, he gave Sherlock a dark look and glared daggers at him as he talked on his phone. "Nevermind, he just walked in." He rounded in on Sherlock. "And where the bloody hell were you?"

Sherlock stared back at him with emotionless eyes. "I saw my brother and then went to the hospital. Molly Hooper gave me a file that contained unknown substances that she needed my assistance with. I already told you this."

Greg ran a hand through his hair, starting to pace. "Jesus, Sherlock! I didn't expect you to be gone for hours and hours! I thought you went back to that abandoned drug house. You could've been dead somewhere in the gutter for all I knew! You didn't even bother to call or message me and let me know you were all right…"

Sherlock gave him an almost bored expression but inside he really just wanted to be left alone to do what he had to do. "If you're quite finished, I'd like to go to my room and be left alone now." He turned away from Lestrade to walk towards his room but he felt a grip on his arm stop him.

"No, Sherlock! We're talking about this right now! I'm sick of you going off on your own and being _somewhere _out there for several hours without letting me know where you are or what you're doing. Frankly, I find it pretty damn ridiculous you'll text me and let me know to pick you up when you're high but have total disregard when you're clean!" Lestrade growled in frustration.

Sherlock struggled to free himself from the DI's tight grip but couldn't free himself. He clenched his jaw tightly in anguish. "What is it exactly that you want from me, Lestrade?"

"For one, I'd like it if you stopped calling me by my last name and either call me Dad or Greg! I've known you since you were nine years old, for Christ's sake, Sherlock! I want you to message me occasionally and let me know where you are and that you're safe or if you're not, then at least tell me you need my help! I might be head of Scotland Yard but you're still my bloody family and you come first!" Sherlock yelled but the anger was drained out of it and it was filled with worry.

"Fine! I'll do that then! Just… let me go… _Greg._"

Hearing his name come out of the young man's mouth surprised him enough for his hand to release Sherlock's arm. He just sighed heavily and nodded. "Will you really? Can I hold you to that?"

Sherlock half-shrugged. "Yes, if it will help you sleep better at night. You really need a better pillow and to go to bed earlier. Promises don't help one sleep better at night; firm mattresses and proper pillows do."

"Can I ask you something?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, suddenly interested. "If you feel the need."

"Why did you have me lie to your brother about why you were on Upper Brook Street? Why not… just tell him? He must know about your drug use by now…"

The young man rubbed his eyes tiredly. "He does know. I don't want him to know about this past time because I was clean for so long up until recently and if he knows I used the other day, then… I'll never hear the end of it and it's just something else he can hold against me."

Lestrade smirked slightly. "I don't think that's the reason. I think… you're afraid of disappointing him."

Sherlock closed his eyes for several moments, mentally willing Lestrade to burst into flames before he opened his eyes again. "Goodnight, Greg." The words tasted like sulphur in his mouth but he knew repeating his guardian's name would satisfy him for the time being.

He turned back around and walked into the bathroom before he shut and locked it. He turned the shower on but didn't undress. Instead, Sherlock started to carefully rummage through the medicine cabinet for one of Greg's razors he kept in a small wooden box. He let out a breath when he found it and opened the lid slowly, seeing five metal blades lined in a row.

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before he thought for a moment and then took off his shirt. The glint of the metal seemed to bounce off of the lights and Sherlock relaxed himself as much as he could before he pressed the cold blade to the most upper inside part of his forearm, so even if he rolled up his sleeves to his elbow, his secret would still be a secret. After seeing the blood pool up in little bubbles in each slice of his skin, he could feel the hot kiss that seared with pain.

Pain. That's what he had wanted to feel. As sick as it was, he knew it was better than feeling nothing at all. He cleaned off the blade and placed it neatly inside the box before putting it back in the medicine cabinet and grabbing a chunk of toilet paper. He placed it on his forearm to soak up the blood. Sherlock swallowed hard, pressing firmly on the fresh cuts to make it clot faster. Once he had cleaned up his arm, he took his pants off and then shut the water off in the shower before he wrapped a towel around him and made a quick exit into his room. If Lestrade cast a quick glance in his direction, he would just think Sherlock had taken a shower first before going to bed.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep for the second night in a row. He got out of his bed and tiptoed towards the living room when he heard a voice in the dim room.

"Can't sleep again?"

"No, I can't. I see that you're unable to sleep either. What's keeping you up, Lestrade?"

Greg turned around with sad eyes but his lips were curving upwards in a small smile. He motioned for Sherlock to sit beside him on the sofa. Once he did, the DI turned to him. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We're getting you antidepressants tomorrow, Sherlock. I know that's the last thing you want but… there's no cases for you to help the Yard with and… I really believe they could help you."

"I'm not taking antidepressants. Case or not, I still have things I'd like to remember and focus on," the younger man protested softly.

Lestrade ran an exhausted hand through his hair again. "You're seeing a doctor tomorrow, then. You can talk with him and sort it all out. You don't… you don't need to get antidepressants then but I do want you to just talk to him and see what he says. Maybe he'll give you something to help you sleep. Will you just do this for me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes half-heartedly but decided to use this to his own advantage. "Only if you continue to lie to my brother for me."

"Deal," Greg agreed, holding out his hand.

Sherlock looked at it curiously before he reluctantly shook it before releasing it within a few seconds. "It's settled then."

For the first time in a long time, Greg Lestrade smiled brightly before gently slapping his ward on the back in satisfaction.


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N:** I apologize for taking so long to write and put this chapter up. I've been dealing with my own depression and it doesn't allow me to really do much of anything, let alone write.

Thank you everyone who have reviewed the past chapters! You guys are really wonderful. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Three

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock watched in agony as the clock on the mantelpiece as it struck 7:30 a.m. He hadn't slept fully for almost three days. He could already tell a difference in his thinking; delayed and slower than usual. He couldn't go any longer like this.

Maybe Lestrade had been right in ordering him to see a doctor. With no cases, perhaps it wouldn't be terrible to get a prescription too help him catch up on sleep. With no cases, being tired and slightly unfocused wouldn't affect him too much.

Perhaps it would even help him get a handle on things again. However, antidepressants still seemed out of the question. They would make him groggy and Sherlock did not care very much to be walking around in a numb fog all the time. They weren't like sleeping aids; he couldn't just take the antidepressants when he needed them. They needed time to kick in and he would have to stay them for a certain amount of time before anyone could declare the medication was either helping him or hindering him.

Sherlock glanced off to the side to see Greg Lestrade sleeping peacefully, if not a bit uncomfortably, in his armchair. He stood up and headed off to go shower and get ready to leave for St. Bart's hospital.

As he undressed in the bathroom, he let his eyes scan briefly over his self-inflicted injuries from the previous night. They looked inflamed and red and he lightly ran his fingertips over them, flinching in not pain, but relief, when he felt the sting of them. Sherlock swallowed hard before he hopped into the shower and adjusted the temperature of the water so he wouldn't be in constant pain as he washed his hair and the rest of him.

What if the doctor at the clinic made him dress into a gown? How could he explain how he received the even, angry lines of cuts? Cat scratches were not perfectly even in rows, so blaming it on a feline was out of the question. No trained doctor would buy that lie. He could blame it on cutting himself on something in the lab, but then they might send someone upstairs to the Pathology labs to make sure Sherlock wasn't in danger of contracting an infection or sepsis or anything. He sighed, frustrated he was hitting a roadblock at every end of his thoughts.

Sherlock left the bathroom and quickly made a beeline for his room before he started getting dressed in a long-sleeved, button down shirt before he decided on a pair of denim pants, opting for comfort rather than impression. He still threw on a black dress jacket over his shirt, however before he made his way out again to see Lestrade awake and in different clothes. How long had Sherlock been in the shower for?

"Ready, then?" the DI asked him calmly but cast a nervous look up at his ward.

Sherlock sighed through his nose and grabbed his phone to check to it. One missed message from his brother. He simply nodded in response to Lestrade's question as he opened up the text message to read it.

_Meet me at Speedy's for a late breakfast this morning. That is, if you have no prior commitments. – MH_

Sherlock closed the curious message. It seemed nearly an order but his brother seemed to have given him the option of opting out. That was unusual.

He slipped his shoes on and then opened the door for Greg before he locked it behind them. The two men hailed a cab and soon arrived at St Bart's, the butterflies fluttering inside of Sherlock, filling him with anxiety and nervousness once they stepped into the actual building.

He had been here thousands of times, but never at the free clinic part of it. When they walked over to the section, they were surprised to find it empty.

"Are any doctors even here?" Sherlock asked aloud, more so to himself than his guardian.

Lestrade was about to speak when a semi short looking man in a white coat and dirty brown hair came out of one of the rooms and glanced at the two of them in semi surprise, obviously not having expected anyone to be out there still.

"Hello… which one of you is here to see me then?"

Sherlock looked up at the doctor to see him smiling warmly in greeting. He cleared his throat and then observed the doctor's name tag. "Err… that would be me, Dr. Watson."

"Oh, please. You can just call me John. It gets exhausting, being called 'doctor' all the time," the opposite man replied as he stepped aside to let the younger man into the room.

Once he closed the door behind him, the physician grabbed his clipboard and sat down in a chair, offering the elevated table to the detective. "Right then, what's troubling you today, sir?"

Sherlock felt increasingly uneasy as he reluctantly sat down on the table, his feet almost touching the linoleum floor. "Sherlock Holmes… and… I've been having great difficulty sleeping." He bit his tongue to stop himself from mocking the physician.

John Watson wrote something down on the piece of paper that was attached to his clipboard before glancing back up at him. "All right, Mr. Holmes, how long have you been having trouble sleeping?"

Sherlock pondered the question for a few moments, thinking. It seemed to happen whenever his depression was coming on, and in the midst of a depressive episode but he didn't want to mention depression at all. "Err… it's been happening for a while. It sort of just depends, I suppose. I can sleep fine most nights but other nights are harder for me."

There. He didn't _completely _lie, at least. The nights were hard for him.

John still looked at Sherlock with analytical eyes, almost in the same way Sherlock observed and examined crime scenes for clues. "What do you do for a living, Sherlock? Is your job particularly stressful, physically or emotionally?"

"I'm a consulting detective," the younger man answered tonelessly. "It's not a full time job or anything, mostly only when Scotland Yard is feeling helpless during a case."

"Consulting detective," the doctor pondered aloud. "That sounds interesting, but I'm afraid you didn't answer the second part of my question. Do you find it stressful?"

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, unsure how to really answer the question truthfully. "I suppose it's more… frustrating than stressful, usually when I hit a dead end or run out of ideas. I don't believe it's stopping me from sleeping, if that's where you're getting at."

John Watson wrote down something else on the sheet he was writing on. "I see… hmm. Do any other symptoms accompany your insomnia? Either physical or mental?"

Sherlock could feel a lump in his throat as the doctor stared at him with interest. "I'm sorry, mental? What do you mean by mental symptoms?"

John cocked his head to the side slightly. "Well, I suppose I mean things like… depression, sudden loss of interest, feelings of worthlessness, possibly even suicidal thoughts?"

"Why do you ask?"

The doctor looked at him with furrowed eyebrows and an unreadable expression that Sherlock felt unable to pinpoint. "Insomnia is a pretty common side-effect of depression. Many people think depression only affects the younger ones however, it's also very common for adults as well. Err… another side effect could also be physical pain in the muscles or joints, either a feeling of pressure or pain. Do you think you might be depressed, Sherlock?"

The detective swallowed hard and then exhaled impatiently. He wanted to get up and storm out of here but there was something about the doctor that felt welcoming and patient. Sherlock felt like this man might be a bit condescending but most doctors were anyway. It must just come with the territory.

"Do I look depressed, Doctor?"

John crossed his legs and smiled ever so slightly. "Most times you can't tell someone is depressed just by looking at someone but – "

Sherlock smirked now. "Really? I'm pretty certain that I can."

John looked skeptically at him. "Is that so?" The doctor chuckled softly. "Well, that's most impressive, Mr. Holmes. I don't seem to have that talent but we're getting off topic now. You told me you had moderate to severe insomnia. Now, I can prescribe you some mild sedatives to help you relax and get to sleep. Do you think that would prove helpful to you?"

Sherlock shrugged and stood up. "If they'll help me sleep, then yes; I believe they would prove very helpful to me."

John stood up and turned his back momentarily to write something else down on his clipboard before he walked over to the half desk attached to the wall. He glanced over at Sherlock. "I'm not a psychiatrist but… you look to me to be the type who rarely asks anyone for help involving yourself. I'm going to give you a prescription for the sleeping pills as well as my number that can be reached whenever. Feel free to call me if you need another refill, if you're experiencing any negative side effects from the sedative, if you have any questions or… maybe just to talk."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in wonder and surprise as Dr. John Watson handed him a white sheet with the prescription on it and another piece of paper with a mobile number on it. He pocketed the number and kept the first piece of paper in his hands.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I'll be sure to keep it in mind. Are we done here then?"

The older man looked like he wanted to say something else but just nodded instead. "Yes, you're free to go, Sherlock."

The detective nodded politely and then walked out to where Lestrade was waiting eagerly for him. Sherlock waited until his doctor walked back towards his office before he started out of the hospital, his guardian on his heels.

"So? What did he say?"

Sherlock handed over the prescription sheet to Greg in answer, hailing a cab for the two of them. "Insomnia. He told me to call him if I needed a refill."

Lestrade looked down at the paper and crawled in the back of the cab with Sherlock. "That's it? He didn't say anything else about it?"

Sherlock looked over at him with puzzled eyes. "Why should he? What else is there to say?"

"Well, I mean… your depression, Sherlock. It seems to me that you're having trouble sleeping because you're depressed. Did he not say anything about that?"

Sherlock glanced out the window, watching the people on the sidewalk go about their business. "I didn't mention my depression, Lestrade. I didn't see it as vital, need-to-know information. Besides, if I have these sedatives, it'll help me sleep. I can take them instead of antidepressants."

"_Sherlock_," Lestrade spoke with a somewhat reprimanding tone. "Sleeping pills are not a replacement for antidepressants. These won't help you feel less depressed! I realize I told you that you didn't have to mention it but I wish you had…"

The younger man rolled his eyes and scoffed softly. "Please, my depression is under control. I'm just fine. Once I get some sleep, I'll be even better." When they arrived at 221B, Sherlock got out but blocked Lestrade's way before he turned to him. "Can you get that filled for me? I have a meeting with Mycroft shortly."

Greg got back into the cab with an impatient gruff but nodded. "Yeah, I suppose I have no other choice. After your talk with him, if you're not coming back right away, I want you to text me and let me know what your plans are. Okay, Sherlock?"

The detective waved him away in response before listening to the cab drive away. He sighed in mental exhaustion as he took out his cigarettes from his black coat pocket and lit one, taking a drag from it as he waited for his brother.

Well at least going to the doctor's wasn't a total waste of time. He had gotten to see a relatively attractive doctor as well as get sleeping pills prescribed to him; it hadn't been as bad as he thought it would be.

As he took another drag, it started to rain lightly. He exhaled the smoke before throwing the unfinished cigarette on the ground and walked inside and over to a free table by the windows, away from the other people inside. He sat patiently, waiting, until he saw his brother walk inside and look around for him.

He made a beeline for Sherlock's table and then sat down across from him before he cleared his throat. "How are things, dear brother?"

"Just as well as they were the last time I spoke with you, Mycroft. Nothing's changed. I did see a physician today, however. He prescribed me something to help me sleep. What's the real reason you wanted to talk to me? We saw each other just yesterday!"

Mycroft sighed. "Why is it such a crime to want to spend some time with my baby brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't give me a speech about spending time with people, Mycroft. You know full well we're not exactly social butterflies."

"So why is it that you agreed to meet me here then, Sherlock? Could it have been because you're lonely and desperate for conversation with another human being?" Mycroft asked, a bit of amusement in his voice.

"I'm not lonely. I don't get… _lonely_."

"How would you know?" Mycroft Holmes looked at the younger Holmes brother curiously before he continued. "I expect talking to Greg Lestrade doesn't do much in the way of conversation."

"Talking to Greg Lestrade only proves helpful when I want to be challenged."

"Mm… I suspected as much. Besides, your depression isolates you, does it not? I'm not a professional when it comes to these issues but I would assume that when you get these episodes, you choose not to be around others," his older brother drawled.

Sherlock found himself becoming increasingly impatient with his brother. "What is your point, Mycroft?"

"My point, dear brother, is that you need to talk to me, whether you like it or not. I understand that Gregory Lestrade has taken you under his wing but I'm still your brother, Sherlock. You need to tell me when things are bad with you and what you plan to do about them. It is vitally important to me that I'm aware of what is going on inside that head of yours…"

Sherlock wet his lips and looked at Mycroft with narrowed eyes. "I don't feel the need to tell you every single detail about what goes on in my life, and it's just an enormous pain in my arse if you try to keep tabs on me twenty-four, seven, so please don't go out of your way to do so. I'm a bloody adult, Mycroft! I don't need you looking out for me anymore. You were barely there in my life after our parents died. It's too late for you to want to be involved in my life."

Mycroft looked at his younger sibling with his mouth agape, taken back by Sherlock's remark. The younger Holmes just stared at him with neutral, emotionless eyes and the two men sat in a long silence for almost five minutes.

Finally, Mycroft blinked a few times and spoke again. "It's not too late, Sherlock. Contrary to how I behave and act towards you, I care very deeply about you. I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

"If anything happened to me, Mycroft, you wouldn't be to blame," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"Are you threatening to make something happen to you?"

It wasn't an angry question. There was worry and concern laced in the elder brother's voice.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, Mycroft. I'm not threatening to hurt myself. I'm simply just telling you the facts of my situation. It's fear making you feel guilty about not being involved in my life sooner, and you feel the need to make it up to me in case something horrible happens to me, which you believe it might, given my past drug use coupled with my depression."

Mycroft gave his brother an uneasy look but just nodded, needing to believe that his younger sibling was going to be okay. "Very well, then. If you say it won't happen, then I suppose I should take your word for it. Just promise me if you feel unwell, if… your thoughts become too much for you – "

"Yes yes… I'll talk to someone, I'll go back to the doctor," Sherlock interrupted abruptly, willing this conversation to end.

Mycroft nodded once, seemingly satisfied. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Anything to get you off my back. Now, are we done here?"

The elder man smiled an almost sincere looking smile before he stood up and walked out of the café, leaving Sherlock alone again. The detective let out a breath of relief, grateful just to be done talking to Mycroft. He always dreaded these conversations relating to his depression. They seemed to come up much too often for his taste.

As he sat there at the lone table, his thoughts wandered back to the doctor at the clinic. He hadn't been like anyone else Sherlock had met. Sergeant Donavon and Anderson were both condescending, critical, questioning, and cold towards Sherlock. Even Lestrade appeared to have his breaking points. This doctor had been nothing short of professional and kind towards Sherlock. Granted, he barely even knew anything about the detective other than the insomnia but Sherlock had a feeling that the doctor, Doctor John Watson, figured out about his depression as well.

But Sherlock didn't care. He couldn't care about that. The doctor wasn't a complete idiot like all the other people he had ever talked to were. He found that he even wanted to talk to him again.

Maybe his brother was right, though. Maybe Sherlock Holmes was feeling a bit desperate for friends. Perhaps he was lonely. Hell, he must be lonely if he was considering making friends with a clinic doctor he only met once.

The rain started to pick up outside and hit the window in hard taps. Sherlock was about to stand up to go back home next door when he heard the alert tone for his phone, signifying a new message. He opened it up and looked at the text from Lestrade.

_Got your sleeping pills. Are you coming back for lunch? _

Sherlock bit his lower lip in thought. He hadn't eaten anything yet today. For that matter, he couldn't really remember the last time he _did _eat but he honestly didn't feel hungry. He felt sad, for no particular reason.

_No. Have lunch without me. I have things to do. I'll be home sometime in the evening. – SH_

Once he sent the text, he relaxed in the chair, listening to the rain drum against the small building. There was something oddly relaxing about listening to it. With the dark sky, it made the young man feel as if he were somewhere else; somewhere he could be content and even mildly happy. The rain made him feel hopeful in a world surrounded by hopeless thoughts.

He put his hand in his pocket and gently thumbed the piece of paper that held the doctor's number on it. It felt inappropriate to call him so soon after seeing him. He couldn't call him yet even though there was something inside of him urging him to.

There was honestly no real reason to. It was just Sherlock needing someone to talk to. He had pushed Mycroft away and he knew if he were to visit his brother, it would be his older brother pushing _him _away next.

Why? Why did humans crave such interaction? And when they didn't receive it, why did it make them feel so needy and clingy? Why did it make them feel like the world was tearing apart at the seams and they felt so hopeless to stop it? Humans were such interesting and fascinating creatures.

No. Sherlock couldn't feel lonely. He was never truly alone. Surely there were much more lonely people in the world than he felt. He was a machine, after all. He was a creature who had much difficulty feeling empathy towards another living soul. He was a creature who had difficulty feeling much of anything some days, and when he did feel, he wanted to tear himself out of his skin.

Sherlock ignored the urge to take the card out of his pocket and dial the number. Instead, he stood up and walked outside but remained underneath the red canopy so he was out of the rain.

He took out another cigarette and lit it before taking a drag and letting the smoke drown out his thoughts.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

John Watson arrived home around four in the afternoon that same day, feeling drained just by being at the clinic all day, not even because of an influx of patients. He had maybe examined a total of five people in the whole eight and a half hours he was there.

Of course there was one patient in particular that had stood out to him. A younger man, maybe eight or nine years younger than himself.

Sherlock Holmes, he remembered the man had called himself.

He looked almost very thin, with dark curls and pale blue eyes with dark circles underneath them from insomnia. John also remembered what had felt like a certain hesitance to answer a few of his questions.

Answered questions with his own questions. Deflecting, he believed it was called. Something told him that Sherlock hadn't even wanted to be there and that the older gentlemen with him had forced him to go see a doctor about the insomnia.

John jumped in the shower and then put on a pair of relaxed clothes before he walked into the kitchen and started the kettle for tea. As he grabbed a cup and dumped a teabag into it, his thoughts were still on the young man.

He had seen battle wounds, depression and post-traumatic stress in his fellow comrades during the war, and Sherlock Holmes looked battle-worn himself, in his own way. His smirks and smiles never touched his eyes, and almost seemed forced. He hardly even seemed content, let alone happy. John could see the signs of depression in other people without even having to be told their life story. It wasn't a matter of being psychic or extremely intelligent either.

It was a matter of observation.

As a physician, he was trained to observe behavior, normal as well as out of the norm, in his patients. As he had sat on the table, Sherlock had looked like anxiety was eating him up, and he looked emotionless to the point of numbness.

It had hurt him to see this man behave that way. John wasn't really sure why, though. He had seen his fair share of people die and be tortured by their own thoughts, but for some reason, it made John's heart almost ache just by looking at him.

There was something about this man that made all those other times obsolete in his mind. He barely even knew this man and yet he felt extreme worry and concern for him. They had barely even talked for ten minutes and he regretted letting the young man leave so early. John suspected a history of drug use, which made him nervous after having prescribed him the sleeping pills.

There wasn't a whole lot the doctor could do now. It was all up to Sherlock Holmes. This didn't stop the nagging thoughts in his mind; in fact, it worsened them. John poured the boiling water into a cup before he steeped it and walked over to the chair by the telly and sat down in front of it, only half paying attention to the news of the world.

_He'll be fine. He's an adult. He can take care of himself._

Even as he thought this to himself, he felt like it was a lie. True, Sherlock was obviously over eighteen years old so he was an adult, but could he really take care of himself?

By the look of him, it was apparent that he wasn't eating as much as he should be. Sure, it was possible that the man had a fast metabolism but the insomnia was what set off warning bells in his mind, and the deflection of the questions about depression.

If he wasn't depressed, Sherlock had no reason to ask those types of questions except out of curiosity. He wasn't eating, and he obviously wasn't sleeping.

These were a cause for concern but John wasn't sure what he should do. He hadn't gotten any information out of Sherlock except that he hadn't been able to sleep.

No phone numbers, no address, no anything. Just his name, his symptoms, and a physical observation of the man. There was no way to contact him. It was up to Sherlock to contact _him_.

Would he, though? John had doubts. There was a guilty part of him though, that wished he would. Even just to talk about the weather, as cliché as it was. He felt the overwhelming need to just talk to this man. There was something about him that just wanted to hear his voice again.

Just to know he was okay. Just to know that he was still alive and that he was still breathing. The more he worried about Sherlock Holmes, the more his heart started to ache inside his chest, and he found himself no longer focusing on the television anymore.

No; this wasn't professional to think about his patient like this. He needed to stop. This younger man could have health issues that went beyond his own expertise. If he couldn't help him, then it would just hurt him all the more. Just as he was about to shut the television off, he heard his phone alert him of a new message. He hurried over to it and felt his heart begin to pound hard against his ribcage as he read it.

_I'm bored and need to bounce ideas off of someone. Meet me at The Landmark on Marylebone Road. Dress nice. – SH_

John looked at the text in shock and surprise. SH? Sherlock Holmes. It had to be, and he hadn't given away his number to anyone else with the initials of SH. He was bored and needed someone to bounce ideas off of?

A part of John was dumbstruck. This man, had the audacity to send this to him. And to almost order him to meet him at the restaurant! John couldn't believe this. What kind of sane person did this?

The other part of the doctor erased all these questions from his mind. None of them seemed to matter anymore. After all, he would get to see and talk to Sherlock Holmes again.


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N**: Thank you for the reviews! Please keep them coming!

* * *

Chapter Four

.o.o.

.o.

_Where the hell are you, Sherlock? I at least deserve to be told that. _

_A location. That's all I need. Just let me know where you are and I'll leave you alone. _

_I'm genuinely concerned about you now. Don't make me put out an APD for you._

Sherlock read the three text messages he had received, all from Greg Lestrade, in only a half hour period and sighed heavily. Who needed an actual nagging father when he had Lestrade? The young detective had been killing time so he wouldn't be the first one to arrive at The Landmark restaurant. He wanted the doctor to get their first, perhaps look at his watch and wonder where Sherlock was.

An APD would only infuriate Sherlock, not to mention waste precious and unnecessary police time when they could be looking out for real problematic and criminal people. He didn't need an interruption during his dinner date with the doctor anyway.

_I'm fine. I'll be home later. Now leave me alone. – SH_

He put his phone back into his pocket now and then walked into the restaurant before he glanced around, scanning the tables for the familiar man he had seen earlier that day. Just as he had hoped, he saw the doctor taking a look at his watch, somewhat impatiently. Sherlock smirked to himself and then glided into the restaurant before he headed over to the table where the doctor was sitting at and then planted himself down across from him.

"You _do _realize you're late for your own dinner date, right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock… please, and yes, I am fully aware of this fact, Doctor Watson…" The detective placed his hands together in front of him and searched the doctor's face.

"John, if you please. I'm only Doctor Watson at the hospital. Right then, so… you brought me here to bounce ideas off of me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes playfully, amused at how irritated the doctor sounded by the prospect. "No, actually, I didn't. I said that just to see if you'd show up."

John Watson's eyes widened in surprise and even more irritation. "I'm sorry? You lied just to make me feel like an absolute fool then?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair and wet his lips, his smirk gone now as his mind turned. "I… thought you'd be flattered. I don't understand."

"Flattered?" John inquired in disbelief, leaning forward. "You thought I'd be flattered that you messaged me so that I would come here just to be something to bounce your ideas off of? Not even that! You brought me here just to see if I'd show up…"

"Call it an experiment, John. It was just an experiment so I could figure out what kind of person you are. I didn't get the opportunity to observe you properly earlier this morning; my depression sort of botched up my chances," Sherlock explained easily.

"An experiment? That's what this is to you, then? An experiment so you could… observe me," John shook his head and laughed. "What kind of person does that? Well, I mean, obviously you do that."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side. "As a physician, you really should consider working on your bedside manner, John."

The doctor took a deep breath, visibly trying to resist the urge to strangle his patient. He just nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose before he forced his eyes back on the younger man. "You said you wanted to observe me, how I am. What can you make of me, then?"

Sherlock felt a twist in his stomach at the icy tone. He swallowed hard but made an attempt to show no obvious discomfort. "I… didn't mean to offend you, John. I apologize if I did so but I assure you, there is no need to be angry with me."

The doctor's demeanor shifted abruptly from irritation to curiosity and maybe even pity. Sherlock was still his patient, even out of the hospital, so he should present himself still in a professional manner. He looked up when a waiter came over and asked him what he wanted to drink. After telling him a glass of pinot noir, he waited until the waiter left them alone again before speaking.

"All right, Sherlock," John began as calmly as he could manage. "Let's start with this first, just to get to know each other a little better. You obviously possess some kind of talent if Scotland Yard has taken on a young man such as yourself as a consulting detective. Go ahead; tell me what you can observe from looking at me properly."

Sherlock searched the doctor's face with interest, wondering if this man was being condescending or genuine. He quickly took in the older man's physical appearance. "I can deduce that you're unmarried, from lack of a wedding ring, however, you do have dates with others occasionally, maybe even frequently and for some reason, you're unable to have a successful relationship with someone else for very long. You're rarely home and you keep spare clothes in your office at the hospital. The bags under your eyes signify that you have difficulty sleeping as well, however, they're from obvious post-traumatic stress disorder due to your time overseas. You limp slightly but it's most likely psychosomatic. You have a cane but you forget to use it most of the time, which tells me you don't actually need it. You haunch your shoulders slightly, unusual for an ex-soldier, which could perhaps signify a lack of trust in others. I suspect this is the main reason for your various short-term relationships."

John looked at him with awe in his eyes. "Wow, err… that's absolutely brilliant. Actually, that's also a bit eerie…"

"Yes, I do get that a lot," Sherlock smiled proudly.

John didn't glance up as the waiter placed his wine down in front of him before disappearing again. "Wow, you have… remarkable talent, Sherlock Holmes. I am, indeed, thoroughly impressed."

Sherlock didn't say anything at first but watched as John took a sip of his wine. "Can you deduce anything about me, Doctor?"

John Watson seemed confused at first before he chuckled. "I… no, I can't do that. You're obviously very observant and very intelligent. I don't think I could even begin to deduce anything about you."

"Try," Sherlock urged. "I insist."

John cleared his throat and then nodded in agreement. "Okay, all right, then. Well, you dislike asking others for help, it would seem. You're independent, to the extreme. You don't eat unless you're desperate or unless someone makes you eat, judging by your stature. I would say that you possibly have a deep distrust in others as well, by your own tenseness. That's… that's all I can think of."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that had begun to form at the corner of his lips. "Very good, John… very good indeed. Your deductions are all correct. You're rather intelligent yourself."

John smiled and chuckled awkwardly now before he took this chance to take another drink of his wine. Both men sat silently at the table now, each man unsure what to say to the other for several moments. Luckily, the waiter came back over with a pad and a pen, ready to take orders.

"Err… I believe I'll have the penne pasta with garlic bread. Thank you," John replied.

"And for you, sir?"

Sherlock shook his head and waved the man away. John looked curiously at Sherlock now. "You're… you're not going to eat? If money's an issue, I can pay for it."

The detective searched John's face and smiled politely. "It's not an issue. I'm just not hungry."

John nodded before he thought better and then looked at the slender man with concern laced in his eyes. "Do you… do you ever feel hungry? How often are you eating?"

"I eat whenever I feel hungry, and I only feel hungry when I'm not feeling depressed so I don't eat that often, but yes… I do feel hungry sometimes," Sherlock answered, pressing his palms together again.

"Right," John nodded in understanding before he swallowed hard. "I could've given you some antidepressants to help you take the edge off a bit. I had a feeling you were depressed but I suppose I just wanted to believe you only had insomnia. I should've said something."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's probably best you didn't, actually. I wouldn't have taken your prescription for antidepressants, anyhow. In all honesty, I probably won't even take the sleeping pills you prescribed."

"Why not? You… need them, Sherlock. You need to sleep and it's obviously it's been awhile since the last time you did."

Sherlock sighed again and chewed on his bottom lip. "Antidepressants slow me down. They slow my thinking patterns down and in my line of work, that's just something I can't afford. I think about things during the day and during the night and sleeping pills will just impair my abilities all the more so I believe taking either medications will prove to be useless for me."

"Sherlock, I prescribed them to you so you would take them. That's what my patients do. They come to me with their problems and I prescribe them medications to make them feel better. I cannot, with a clear conscious, leave you after here if you go back home and let your insomnia take over again," John insisted in a soft but firm voice.

The detective was starting to become impatient with the nagging and as much as he wanted to talk to the doctor some more, he couldn't stay here and continue listen to this stranger nag him just like Lestrade and Mycroft always did. He stood up now and slipped his phone into his pocket.

"Whoa, wait a minute. Where are you going…?"

"Do forgive me, John, but I have to be somewhere else." He took out his wallet and shelled out a one-hundred pound note on the table. "For the bill. Feel free to get something else for your dessert. It's on me."

Without another word, Sherlock turned around and started out of the restaurant, internally screaming at himself to stop and go back to the table, to stop being such a drama queen, to apologize. He pushed his internal voice down though, and hailed a cab back to Baker Street.

He fought with himself; he couldn't go back to the restaurant now but he hated himself even more for having left in the first place. He even lied to the doctor just so he wouldn't have to admit his own faults. Sherlock clenched his teeth tightly in the cab and watched the streetlights glisten off the puddles of rainwater in the street and sidewalks.

_Idiot. You can't do anything right. You wanted to talk to this man in the first place, even made up a lie to get him to come meet you, and then you left him there as soon as he became nagging. _

Sherlock Holmes sighed heavily and rubbed his temples at the headache that had begun to form at the sides of his head. He screwed everything up. Now John Watson would probably pawn him off on some other poor doctor at the hospital just to avoid ever seeing the detective again.

He had messed everything up for himself, and the worst part was that he only had himself to blame.

After the cab rolled to a smooth stop in front of 221B, Sherlock shelled out some notes before he hurried up the stairs to his flat. He instantly glanced around for any sign of Lestrade but then let relief wash over him when he realized the DI had gone to work.

He hurried into the bathroom and closed the door, more out of habit than anything else, before he grabbed his familiar razor blade and rolled up his sleeve. He gently let his fingers roll over the reddened, healing cuts before he took a deep breath and made several small incisions into his pale forearm, being semi-careful to avoid the recent cuts.

_You deserve this. You deserve to be alone, Sherlock. Lestrade's left because he can't stand being around you. You were a prick and left John at the restaurant as soon as he became even slightly concerned about you._

_But I paid for his dinner and anything else he wanted to get_, another voice tried to convince Sherlock.

_But you wanted company. You wanted to talk to someone who wasn't Greg Lestrade. _

_Selfish. _Another cut in his skin.

_You're so selfish for wanting anything._ Another cut.

Sherlock watched the warm liquid rise up out of his arm and start to dribble down the sides of his arm before he looked around and grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet and held it tightly to his fresh cuts.

_You deserve to be awake all night. You're a selfish bastard. No one wants you around. You're just a burden._

The young man was barely aware he was crying until he felt hot saltwater droplets make trails down his cheeks. He looked at himself in confusion and sudden self-awareness but felt like none of this was real. He hadn't heard a different voice other than his own criticizing him but the thoughts still hurt the same.

And he felt like they were right.

Sherlock quickly wiped his face off before he started cleaning his now clotted cuts, applying antiseptic cream to them before he brought his sleeve back down over the top to hide them. The numbness and anger he had been feeling towards himself had disappeared but the sorrow remained.

He swallowed back a sob before he walked into his bedroom and shut the door. Sherlock crawled onto his bed and threw the blankets over the top of his small body before he shut his eyes tightly and only let the pillows hear his sobs as his body trembled.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

"Sherlock! Oi! Let me in, mate!"

The detective nearly jumped when he heard the voice, blinking quickly. At first he thought the voice belonged to John but the more he listened to the man on the other side yelling, he recognized Lestrade's voice.

His heart slowed, as did his breathing until it returned to normal, his shoulders only slightly trembling as his sobbing became silent.

Sherlock faked coughing and then cleared his voice. "Err… what do you want?"

"I want you to open the door and come on out to talk to me. I heard crying and… I just want to make sure you're all right. Now come on out…"

"I'm… I'm fine, Lestrade! Just leave me be… I don't want to come out," Sherlock murmured from inside, having forgotten he had locked it out of habit.

The doorknob turned to no avail. Greg must have been trying it from the other side. "I don't care if you don't want to come out! I'm telling you to come out, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed and angrily stood up before storming over to the door and unlocked it, opening it wide to see Lestrade. "What? What is it you want? Can't you _see _I'm busy?" he spoke icily.

Greg gave him a once over and set his jaw before he rubbed the back of his neck, obviously perturbed by Sherlock's thinning body. He didn't say anything for a long time. "I can see that you need to eat something. Just… come out here and maybe have a bit of toast or something."

Sherlock shook his head and glared daggers at Lestrade. "No! I'm sick and tired of you telling me what I should do, Lestrade! I'm sick of everyone telling me what I need to do! This is my life and you're not living in my body so no one has the right to tell me what I should do!"

"Sherlock… calm down, all right? I'm just concerned about you is all… I have the right to be concerned, don't I? You're as good as my son!"

"But I'm not, am I? I'm not your son! You're my guardian, Lestrade, and against my will at that! I never asked for this! I didn't ask for any of this so just leave me alone!" Sherlock yelled, his depression coming out as anger even though he could feel fresh tears leaking from his eyes.

Lestrade must have seen them too because he started towards Sherlock. He threw his arms around him in a tight embrace, not letting go even when Sherlock was crying harder and trying to push the DI off of him. This only made Lestrade hold him tighter against him, which, in turn, only made Sherlock start to sob harder.

"N-No… no! L-Let me go! W-What is this…? Stop this! Stop doing this right now!"

"No!" Lestrade yelled back with a sort of determination and assurance. "You need this, Sherlock. You need someone right now and I don't know why you do but I'm right here, whether you like it or not. You're not as alone as you'd like to believe you are… just let me help… please."

Sherlock continued to shake his head but his hands found the back of Lestrade's shirt and balled the fabric up into his fists tightly, crying into Greg's shoulder. He felt frustration that he was acting in such a ridiculous way for unknown reasons. His entire body shook against Lestrade and several times he made a half-assed attempt to get away from him but Greg held him tighter until Sherlock finally gave up.

"G-Get out…" Sherlock suddenly whimpered through gritted teeth.

"Shh… stop that. You don't mean it…"

"No," Sherlock spoke, composing himself enough to break out of Lestrade's grip. "GET OUT! RIGHT NOW!"

Lestrade looked at him in disbelief. "Are you bloody daft? This is _my _flat, Sherlock!"

"Fine. Then I'll get out." Sherlock hurried into his bedroom and grabbed a knapsack he hadn't used since his school age days. He started shoving clothes and a few essentials into it, only what he needed.

Lestrade followed him into the bedroom. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going! Since this is your flat and one of us has to leave, I figured it's appropriate if it's me! Don't worry, Greg. You won't have to take care of me anymore…" Sherlock didn't care if he was being melodramatic; all he knew was that he had to get away from the people he didn't deserve or else he was going to go crazy.

"No… don't do this, Sherlock! Stop it! Unpack your things, you're staying here."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lestrade. I'm not doing that," Sherlock remarked as he pushed past the DI into the living room and grabbed the sleeping pills that were sitting on the coffee table. Then, he went into the bathroom and grabbed his blade as well as the bloody washcloth he had used earlier before Lestrade could even see what he had grabbed. Sherlock walked back into the living room area and looked around for anything else that might be important but then decided he was finished. He grabbed his long black coat and then repositioned his bag on his shoulder.

"Come on, Sherlock. Don't do this. I don't want to be responsible for your death. You don't take care of yourself! You're going to starve out there on the streets, for Christ's sake!"

Sherlock opened the door but stopped and turned to Lestrade, searching his face. "You don't have to be responsible for me anymore. I just… can't stay here, with you."

Lestrade's face looked conflicted and he ran his hands through his hair before he placed his hands on his hips. He legally couldn't make him stay here; Sherlock was nineteen and he was an adult. He knew that didn't mean he wasn't worried about him though.

"At least promise me you'll check every day with me, just to let me know you're all right. That… you're alive."

Sherlock turned back to the door and gave a short nod before he headed down the stairs and out of 221B. Once he arrived outside, he thought about where he should go. He was free, no strings, but he didn't know where his next destination would be.

Mycroft would only take him in out of familial obligations and Sherlock would just be a burden to him. He couldn't ask John if he would take him up after just knowing him for two hours.

St. Bart's. He could live there until he was found out. Free clinic. Food. Showers. And John, but of course only if he wanted to see the doctor again.

He could come and go as he pleased. He raised his hand out and watched as the cab made a beeline for him before getting inside of it.

"Where to, then?"

Sherlock heard the chime of a new text message and opened it up:

_We should talk. I'm not angry or anything. I just want to see how you are today. – JW_

"St. Bart's Hospital."


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N:** so I adjusted the age difference slightly to help make the story be more "realistic" and that can be found just in the third chapter but it's not that big of a deal so you can go back to re-read it or not, up to you.

Thank you for all the reviews!

* * *

Chapter Five

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock was fighting off his urges for more morphine as he entered the hospital, his backpack slung over his shoulder and the sleeping pills in his pocket. The doctor wished to talk to him again, even after Sherlock had left him nearly high and dry.

He still wanted to be around him.

This was a rarity indeed. Usually when Sherlock behaved this way, he wouldn't hear from the people he brushed off ever again.

_Don't get excited. He's a doctor. He just wants to make sure you're still alive. He already can tell how irresponsible you are with your body. He doesn't want your friendship or anything else. _

Sherlock pushed down his hopes as he walked over to the doctor's office and knocked on it in three rhythmic taps. About half a minute later, the door opened and John looked up at Sherlock with a smile on his face.

"Great, you made it. Please, have a seat, Sherlock."

John gestured to the chair in front of his desk and the younger man sat down, placing his backpack on the floor. He didn't say anything for several moments so the doctor spoke again after glancing to the backpack.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Hm? Oh, no… not really. Just decided it was time I move out of my old flat that I shared with my guardian. Time to leave the nest, as they say," Sherlock faked a pleasant smile before he changed the subject. "You wanted to see me about something?"

John's face went from curiosity at the first part of Sherlock's statement to recall as he remembered his reasoning for wanting to see the young man again. "Oh, right. Yes… are you… are you all right?"

Sherlock searched the doctor's concerned eyes and swallowed hard. He wanted to tell him the truth. He wanted to ask for help, that he didn't want to leave his flat and be on his own, and could he maybe live with him? But no, he also couldn't ask that of someone he just met. He risked losing seeing him ever again. It was simply too forward.

"Yes, John. I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

John placed his hands on his desk and chewed on his bottom lip before he looked at Sherlock's reddened eyes. He had been crying, and not even long ago. Something wasn't right; he didn't need to be a genius like the man in front of him to notice that.

"I'm just… worried about you. It must have been a… snap decision to move out of your flat. You brought your backpack here with you. Most people might have taken their belongings to their new place before coming here but you brought yours with you…" John trailed off, putting pieces of the puzzle together.

Sherlock sighed to himself and gave him a sad smile, wondering if he really looked as broken as he felt. "And… what can you deduce from that, doctor?"

"Well," John scratched at his chin before he looked back up at Sherlock. "I suppose I might deduce that you don't have another flat somewhere else. You're officially homeless."

This doctor was a lot smarter than he looked, a negative in Sherlock's case. Panic started to set in now. "I have somewhere else I can spend the night. You needn't worry about me, John. I'm very resilient and fiercely independent."

John nodded and smiled softly. "Yes, I've noticed. Sherlock… err… I know this might be crossing a line somewhere but… if you find yourself without a place to stay, you're more than welcome to stay with me until you get yourself back on your feet."

"Charity? I don't need your charity, with all due respect," Sherlock spoke before he could bite back his words.

"It's not charity, Sherlock. You're a depressed young person and I'm just concerned for your well-being. I realize how independent you are but I'm just giving you an invitation in case you don't feel like being alone anymore," John remarked, kindness and calm in his voice.

"I don't need your sympathy for me either, John, _with all due respect._" Sherlock couldn't keep the venom out of his voice now. "I appreciate the concern and it's been mentally noted but I'm sure I can fair well without your help."

John nodded now, his smile dropping and his hands going up in front of him as if to say 'fine, then, that's your decision.' He grabbed one of his cards and scribbled down his address on it anyway and pushed the card towards Sherlock.

The younger man looked at it with disgust but he grabbed the card and pocketed it anyway.

"Just in case…" John offered in nearly a whisper.

"Is that all you brought me over here for or is there something else? I have other things I could be doing at the moment," Sherlock hissed icily.

_Like injecting pure heaven into me._

John stared at him for several moments before he nodded once. "Yes, actually… erm… I wish to discuss what happened with you at the restaurant, when you suddenly got up to leave…"

"You were nagging me. I apologize if I offended you but being nagged by anyone is the last thing I need. That's why I left so suddenly."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry if I offended _you_ by my nagging but I'm only concerned about you. You're not eating and not sleeping and you're severely depressed. It'd be mad not to worry about someone like that," John explained.

Sherlock debated getting up and leaving again but he honestly wanted to be around the doctor a bit longer, just to breathe in his oaky cologne. There was just something about this man that was inviting and repelling at the same time and Sherlock found it interesting. "Eating is boring and I may not eat as often as you like but I promise you that I do eat and I do not have any type of eating disorder. Digestion slows me down so I don't eat when I'm thinking and I tend to think a lot. You gave me sleeping pills for my insomnia so I'll be able to sleep again, so that solves that other problem. As for my depression, I cope. I'm not going to top myself, if that's what you're concerned about."

"How do you cope, Sherlock? What sorts of things do you do?"

_I self-injure. I shoot up. I let myself slip into a self-sustained coma for several hours._ "I play the violin to distract me," he lied. "I find that music very often soothes the beast within."

As much as he wanted this to be true, Sherlock did not yet possess a violin and Lestrade hadn't been able to find him one either, but saying this seemed to satisfy the doctor and it was better than telling him how he was actually a self-destructive junkie. He didn't want him to know that part of his life, if Sherlock could help it.

"Ah, yes. Music can be a very helpful distraction from depression," John nodded. "I realize you probably don't want to hear it again but antidepressants can also be helpful, Sherlock. They take a few weeks to adjust to your system but… they can lessen your depression."

"As I've said before, John, antidepressants make me unfocused and fatigued. I prefer not to take them. Thank you anyway, for the thought. I know you mean well," the young man replied, grabbing his backpack.

John stood up as Sherlock did and searched his eyes. "Will I see you again, Sherlock?"

The young detective smiled softly and nodded. "Yes, I'm almost certain you will. I'll see to it that you do."

This assured John Watson enough to make him relax again and he held out a hand. "I look forward to that then."

Sherlock extended his hand and firmly shook the doctor's hand. "As do I, John. Good evening." He nodded to him once and then let himself out of the office before he walked out of the hospital and hailed a cab.

He climbed inside one just as the English rain began to pour from the skies. "Upper Brook Street, please."

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

When the cab pulled up to the abandoned building on Upper Brook Street, Sherlock shelled out some notes before he emptied the cab and entered the building. Even though it smelled like piss and sweat, he felt at home.

In a twisted way, it was his home. It was sanctuary. He didn't trust half the people who shot up inside here but he felt safe in other ways. It was a place where he wouldn't be judged or nagged by anyone. He walked up the stairs to his usual room and walked past several bodies before letting himself sit on the mattress in the corner where he usually sat on. From the look of the imprints in the mattress, no one else had been on it.

He reached inside his bag and pulled out his spare, clean syringe that he always kept in there for emergencies and then pulled out the small morphine bottle from his black coat pocket. He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and then wrapped his leather belt around his forearm before he pushed down on the plunger, letting the morphine enter his body.

He let himself fall back on the mattress and fall into a beautiful oblivion without a care in the world.

When he woke up, he felt panic and alarm rush through him, not recognizing his surroundings at first until he remembered he was his old getting high place again.

It was light, and morning light at that. It couldn't be past nine and when he looked down at his feet at his backpack, it was obvious someone had ransacked it, looking for either drugs or money by the state of his clothes lying here and there on the floor.

Sherlock chuckled to himself. _Idiots. _They hadn't been smart or perhaps sober enough, to check his own pants pockets. Even though he found this amusing, he knew it wouldn't be smart to stay here much longer. He had his fix, he got the high he wanted, but now he needed to go elsewhere.

To keep moving until he felt safe.

Sherlock packed his clothes up again and then heard the chime of his phone and vibrating that alerted him to a message. Good, at least they hadn't stolen that. He took it out of his pocket and was amazed to see he had messages. He opened them and began to go through them.

_3 New Messages_

_7:15 a.m. - Sherlock, why don't you pop around the Diogenes for lunch today? It would be nice to talk to you again. – MH_

_7:35 a.m. - Just messaging you to let you know I'm glad you agreed to see me yesterday evening, even though I'm almost positive you didn't want to. If you want to chat again, about anything at all, feel free to message me or call. – JW_

_8: 55 a.m. - You're stubborn and bull-headed but I still worry about you. You may be an adult but I still feel responsible for you, so please call me back when you see this text. I just need to know you're okay. – Lestrade_

Sherlock fingered through the messages again and started to reply back. First to his brother:

_Maybe. I'm sure you'll be there anyway, indulging on sweets. By the way, how is your diet going, Mycroft? – SH_

Then to John:

_I did want to see you last night, and I'll most likely take you up on your offer to "chat" again. – SH_

Last was Greg Lestrade:

_I'm alive. I'm well. Leave me alone. – SH_

Once he had sent all the messages, he pocketed his phone, put his belt back on, placed his syringe and morphine bottle (which was only a quarter of the way full now), into his backpack before he stood up and slung the pack over his shoulder before leaving the crack house and hailing a cab to the hospital.

This time, he wasn't going to go see John. In fact, if he could help it at all, he wasn't even going to go see the doctor. He walked through the sliding doors of the hospital and made his way upstairs quickly to the Pathology labs. He quickly headed to the locker rooms were where the employees could shower if they pleased and looked around, pleased to see it empty and dark.

He cautiously walked into the showers and locked the door before he started to clean the scum off himself, flinching slightly as the warm water touched his cuts from the other day. He shampooed his hair and rinsed it before shutting the water off and started to dry his body off with a clean towel that the hospital supplied.

He had just wrapped it around his waist when he heard a knocking on the door and then a familiar female voice on the other side.

"Excuse me? This is a public shower room… who's in there?"

Sherlock smirked to himself slightly before he let his smirk vanish and opened the door. "Terribly sorry about that, Molly. I just needed to clean up a bit. You're welcome to it now."

Molly seemed taken aback but her face was quickly replaced with curiosity as she searched Sherlock's face. "Why did you use the women's shower instead of the men's?" Before he could respond, Molly took a step closer to him and then looked at him in almost disbelief. "Your pupils are huge… are you… high, Sherlock?"

Sherlock half-shrugged. "It's a distinct possibility but most of my drug use occurred last night. Oh, you mustn't tell anyone I told you that. Right then, I'm off!" He shuffled awkwardly around Molly before he moved into the locker room portion before he started to get dressed into his clothes.

He had just finished when he saw Molly come out of the shower in a towel that was wrapped around her chest and ended right above her knees. She was still looking at him with a certain curiosity he couldn't pinpoint. "I can see you have further questions. Go ahead and ask them."

Molly looked uncomfortable at first but then walked closer towards Sherlock and looked up at him. "I just want to say that… if you need someone to talk to or… need help with something, I-I'm here for you. Of course you don't need to if you don't feel like it but I just thought - "

"You thought you'd be helpful, which I appreciate but unfortunately for you, there are at least three other people who have already filled this position. Thank you for the offer, nonetheless though, Molly. I assure you that my drug use is none of your concern. Also, I suggest you use a flowery scent instead of the one you're currently using; it fits more with your personality and I believe it might do more to calm your hair in cases of high humidity and rain," Sherlock finished tucking in his wine colored shirt and grabbed his backpack before he left the locker room and moved into the actual lab portion.

He quickly went started going through the drawers until he found at least fifteen small bottles of morphine and grabbed two of them before shoving them into his pack and then threw out his old syringe before he replaced it with two clean ones. He placed these into his pack as well and then hurried out of the lab before Molly could come in and start chatting him up again.

He had killed two birds with one stone; he had been able to steal his drug supply as well as get himself cleaned up before his lunch with his brother and succeeded in looking presentable at least. He was afraid of the crash he would experience later but right now, he was managing.

Sherlock got a cab to the Diogenes club where his brother was and they must have been expected him by the way everyone he ran into moved aside for him and told him Mycroft was waiting for him upstairs.

He was still riding a slight high from the morphine he had taken last night so he felt reasonably calm about this lunch gathering with his brother. When he arrived at the double doors, he knocked on them and they opened seconds later to reveal his brother sitting in a deep armchair with a table across from him, and then another deep armchair on the other side of the table.

"Sherlock, so glad you could make it on such short notice. Please sit down and help yourself to some tea and biscuits…"

Sherlock sat down across from his brother and poured himself some tea before adding a bit of milk and sugar. He stirred it with his spoon to mix it altogether and took a sip from it. "Surely you wished to discuss something with me. It's not like you to just want to share your food with me…"

Mycroft gave a sly smile and took a sip of his own tea. "I'm celebrating my promotion with you, dear brother. Can't I do that at least with my only flesh and blood?"

Sherlock wet his lips and sighed softly. "I suppose. What position are you at now? I didn't think it was possible for you to get any higher than being in the British government. Have you become a King now?"

"You may jest, Sherlock, but I'll only believe it's out of jealousy. I've become fairly close to some very important people in my line of work, dangerous people, in fact."

"Ah, so is that why you brought me here then? To help you with something?" Sherlock took another cautious sip out of his china cup.

Mycroft smirked like a Cheshire cat at the suggestion. "Why ever would I need your help, Sherlock? Surely you haven't reached that extent of popularity yet. How are you doing with Gregory Lestrade, by the way? Cracked any more cold cases?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to remain calm in his brother's presence. "Several, in fact. It's going splendidly. I believe I'm to become his best man at his next wedding, with how close we are now…"

"Is that so?" Mycroft let out a chuckle of amusement and it was clear now that he could tell Sherlock was lying. "That's very interesting indeed, since Greg phoned me up this morning."

"Oh?" Sherlock didn't show his surprise or frustration that he was beginning to feel. "What did the Dectective Inspector himself have to say?"

Mycroft's expression went from amusing to serious. "He informed me that you moved out of 221B, Sherlock. Now tell me, why would you do such a thing?"

"I'm over eighteen, Mycroft. I'm allowed to move out whenever I want."

"No," Mycroft corrected him. "_Normal _people are allowed to move out whenever they want once they reach the legal age. _You _are not normal, lest you forget. You are a creature of both habit and self-destruction, both which are dangerous circumstances for someone with your intelligence and age. It's vital you stay with Greg Lestrade… you need someone to take care of you."

Sherlock made no attempt to hide his anger now. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Oh for God's sake, Mycroft! Just drop it already! I'm not a child anymore. I don't need looking after!"

Mycroft looked at him pointedly now. "Really? You could have fooled me, Sherlock."

"I'm serious, Mycroft."

"As am I, dear brother." Mycroft sighed now and took another sip of his own tea. "You might be over eighteen, but you surely do not act responsible enough to live on your own. I don't recall you even having another place to stay. Are you staying at the doctor's place or that abandoned drug den on Upper Brook Street?"

"Neither, actually. I've found a place. Rent's affordable, wallpaper's not too dreadful."

"Stop lying, Sherlock. I know you know that I know where you've been so stop playing your childish games with me!"

Sherlock threw his arms up in the air in exhaustion. "Why is that everything comes down to me being a child? Anyway, if you know where I've been, then why the _hell _would you ask me where I'm living?"

"To answer your first question, it comes down to you being a child because you act like a child. To answer your second question, I asked you in hopes you might actually tell me the truth! I keep tabs on you, Sherlock. I have eyes everywhere now. Do you honestly not believe I wouldn't keep track of where you are and what you're doing?"

Sherlock sighed heavily and bitterly sipped more of his tea before nearly slamming the china back down in its saucer. "I suppose I just hoped you would trust me."

"Ah, yes… trust. There's a word foreign to both of us. Trust, Sherlock, is a difficult thing to earn, especially in your case. It's very difficult for me to trust you when you're shooting up and not accepting antidepressants when they're offered to you. Don't you want to get better?"

Sherlock thought about this question and half shrugged. "More or less, I suppose."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his temples, as if the anguish of his rebel younger brother was too much for the British government himself to take. "Well, I want you to get better and if that requires you accepting help you don't wish to accept, then… I would expect it, if I were you."

There was an edge to his voice that made Sherlock cock his head curiously to the side as he looked at his brother. "Are you threatening me, Mycroft? Forgive me but last time I checked, it was my body that I was shooting my drugs into, and not yours."

Mycroft gave an odd chuckle again. "Call it a friendly suggestion."

Sherlock had to calm himself in order to stop from standing up and walking out. "Mycroft, I don't care if this is another one of your attempts to keep me close solely because we're 'the only Holmes' left.' That doesn't interest me in the least. I obviously can't stop you from keeping tabs on me but don't invite me over here just to threaten me into sobriety because it isn't going to work."

Mycroft was looking frustrated but finally he looked close to giving up. "Fine, then. At least put my mind at ease, Sherlock."

"All right, then," the younger sibling replied, standing up from his chair. "I'm using clean needles, not sharing them with anyone else because I'm just greedy like that. I'm not snorting any cocaine or doing heroin, I haven't overdosed once, and I don't plan to in the near future. I'm not feeling suicidal and have no intentions of doing away with myself. I'm seeing the doctor nearly every day now because he won't leave me alone if I don't give him a constant update about my condition. Also, Lestrade is still keeping tabs on me as well and manages to force me to answer his messages because if I don't, then he'll continue to message me until I do. Now, does any of that put your mind at ease because I'm afraid I really must be off now."

Mycroft smirked to himself and nodded once. "Yes, Sherlock. My mind is plenty at rest now. Thank you. Sit back down now and have a couple biscuits. You're looking awfully pale."

"No thanks, Mycroft," Sherlock answered as he started towards the double doors. "I'm afraid I've just lost my appetite."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called after him, but Sherlock walked straight out and didn't look back.

He decided to save some of his money and walked back towards the hospital, thankful that the rain had let up some. He was still soaked to the bone when he reached the hospital but he felt so fatigued and physically exhausted at this point that he just couldn't make himself care about the wetness.

He discreetly made his way towards the Pathology labs, aware that Molly Hooper would be downstairs for the next hour or so. He took advantage of this knowledge and crept inside with his bag before finding a place that was at least semi out of sight of prying eyes behind a long counter.

Sherlock pushed his bag into the shape of a pillow before he took off his damp shirt and lay on the cool floor, unfazed by the temperature of it as it reached his warm skin. As soon as his head rested against the bag, he felt the rest of his body relax and felt himself fall asleep, the rest of the world seemingly falling away with him.


	6. Chapter Six

**A/N:** So sorry for the delayed update. My head's been all over the place lately. Anyway, here's the next chapter!

* * *

Chapter Six

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock felt a confused and rather worried sounding voice as he slowly started to wake up. When he opened his eyes, he glanced over and saw his colleague Molly Hooper kneeling over him.

"Oh thank god. I-I didn't know what to think, Sherlock. I kept trying to shake you awake but you weren't waking up – "

Sherlock coughed a bit and then proceeded to rub his eyes drowsily, his body already starting to withdraw from the morphine. He felt fatigued and sore, shaky and unsteady. He stayed where he was and then waved Molly off. "No need to panic. I'm just fine, Molly. Is there something in particular I can help you with?"

The offer seemed to surprise the Pathologist. She blinked a few times in rapid succession before she swallowed hard and then shook her head. "Err… no. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You look pale. Are you eating, Sherlock?"

The young man gave her a weak smile, not having the energy to be curt and rude at the moment. "Not very much as of late, no."

"Would you like to get a bite of something with me? I was heading down there anyway…"

Sherlock thought for a moment and shook his head. His body hurt too much to get up and walk around, but he knew that was his own fault. His body had gotten so used to the morphine and it craved more but he needed a break of it; he didn't need to feel so worn out and tired once the effects wore off. "You go on without me. I'm just going to lay here for a bit longer."

Molly gave him a nervous nod before she searched his face. "Do you need me to get a doctor from downstairs?"

Sherlock wasn't sure how familiar she was with John but now didn't seem like a good time to ask. He couldn't have John know the truth about his situation, at least not yet. "No, Molly… I'll be fine. I just need to rest for a bit. Thank you, though."

She looked hesitant, as if she wanted to ask him something else but she bit her tongue and stood back up before giving him a small smile and then leaving the room.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes sleepily with the heels of his hands, feeling as if he hadn't slept at all last night. It was almost noon now but the light from the outside was dimmed and dark with large rainclouds hovering over the city. He was grateful that Molly had only turned on a few desk lights here and there around the room instead of the bright fluorescent lights that clung to the ceiling; he didn't think his eyes could handle that much at once.

He closed his eyes again and was about to drift off some minutes later when he heard Molly's flats on the tiled floor as she came back into the labs and over to him. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of tea in a dark green mug and a bagel with light cream cheese on both slices. Sherlock pushed himself to sit up and rested his back against the wall.

"This looks like some feast, but you didn't need to go through all that trouble, Molly…"

She shook her head and smiled again before she sat down in front of him, holding her own tea in a plastic cup. So she had given him her personal mug…

"No, it wasn't any trouble at all. You need to eat. By the look of you, it doesn't look like you've eaten much in the past couple days," Molly bit her lip anxiously before she looked down at her plastic cup. "A-Are… are you all right?"

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose before exhaling slowly and then taking a small sip of the tea and only eyed the bagel, his stomach rumbling with hunger. He debated how to answer her question. Usually, he had no issue with lying to Molly Hooper and it had become a routine she had come to expect from him. When he looked in her eyes now though, he didn't see a little girl who had a silly schoolgirl crush on him.

No, he saw what he needed the most right now; a friend.

"Molly, can… you keep a secret if I were to tell you one? You mustn't tell anyone, especially no one that works here at the hospital. Do you understand?" Sherlock searched her eyes urgently.

She nodded insistently. "Yes, of course… I promise I won't tell anyone."

Sherlock wet his lips and then sighed to himself. Maybe it wasn't a wise idea to confide in her but he felt the need to talk to _someone _about this and obviously Mycroft, Lestrade and John were out of the question. He felt like of those three people, he'd be able to talk to John about it eventually but he needed someone else he could talk to, someone he could go to when he needed to. Molly Hooper was intelligent, observational, and loyal to an extreme. It seemed logical to talk to her.

He took another sip of his tea before he decided to distract his hands to take his anxiety off a bit. Sherlock leaned forward slightly and started to tear off a small piece of bagel before placing it in his mouth. He chewed it and waited to talk until he had swallowed it.

"I'm… actually not really quite sure where to start," he started, pausing for a long time to collect his thoughts. "I-I believe I have depression and a substance abuse problem, Molly. I've been… using off and on since I was sixteen. It started out with cigarettes and then it was heroin, here and there, and cocaine and… then morphine now and again."

As he expected, Molly's mouth was opened agape in surprise. She closed it though and her eyes now held questions, but also answers. "That's… why you looked high in the showers yesterday." She nodded slowly in understanding before she forced her eyes to meet his own. "Why do you do it, Sherlock? You're… so smart. You're a genius and you're killing yourself with them."

Her voice seemed almost resigned but angry at the same time. Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond at first so he took another bite of the bagel before sipping his tea. "I suppose I use drugs to help me think, mostly, or… not think. I guess it just depends on my mood at the time. I-I've also taken up self-injuring as well."

Molly straightened up now and looked at Sherlock in alarm. "C-Can… can I see…?"

Sherlock hesitated at first but knew if he was going to get her to trust him and help him when the time came, he would need her on his side to do so. He needed to show her all his secrets, no matter how awkward or painful they were for either of them. "Yes, of course."

He rolled up his sleeve and revealed the scars from almost a week ago. It no longer looked red and angry, but sad and almost reluctantly healing. He blushed slightly when he felt her staring at the cuts. "I… I needed a distraction from what I was feeling at the time. The numbness, I mean. Morphine can only do so much."

Molly reached out and gently grabbed his arm with her hand before she examined the straight, even lines on his forearm. "Have you been applying disinfectant cream on it? Cleaning it?"

Sherlock nodded once. "Of course. I'm not an idiot."

"I know that. I wasn't trying to imply that you were," Molly sighed softly, suddenly looking years beyond her age. She pulled his shirt sleeve back down and then split apart a piece of bagel.

"I know you weren't." He was silent for a long time, sipping more of his tea. "I know there's no way you could possibly understand this but – "

Molly swallowed quickly and turned to look at him. "I know someone who does that… err… d-did that. They… did that… when they were still alive. They told me the same thing you did, about how it gets rid of… the numbness. I'm not going to judge you, Sherlock. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Sherlock nodded again in understand and then took another sip of his tea, losing his appetite. "So… I can trust you then? About the information I've given you?"

She nodded surely and gave a reassuring smile. "Of course you can. I won't tell anyone. It doesn't benefit me in any way if I do and it'll just get you sacked so… I think it's in both our benefits if we keep it secret. I mean, apart from those you can trust. I won't tell anyone though. Don't worry. Why did you decide to tell me about this, though?"

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip before he finished his tea and set the mug down in front of Molly. "I need more people I can trust. I need… a network I can rely on when I find myself in need. I think it's important we exchange numbers, in case I need you."

She looked a bit apprehensive at first but then motioned for him to give her his phone. Once he did, she punched in her information on it before handing it back to him and then handing him her own phone, where he did the same. He threw her phone back to her carefully and the two sat in silence for a while.

"We're friends then, I suppose…"

Molly chuckled now and nodded. "Yes, Sherlock. We're friends now. Unfortunately, I need to get back to work, though. Is there anything you want me to do for you?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. He wasn't used to having friends so how did this work exactly? Did he have to reciprocate favors as well? It would only be fair. "If my brother Mycroft comes to find you, tell him I'm doing fine and that I'm not taking drugs or anything else. Lie for me, Molly Hooper."

She nodded understandingly and looked at him with mischievous eyes. "I shouldn't lie about something as serious as that, especially when it's actually happening…"

At first he thought she was serious until he saw her wink at him and then he let out a throaty chuckle. "It's okay to lie to Mycroft. You have my full permission."

The two of them stood up and Sherlock grabbed his backpack before slinging it over his shoulder and disappearing out of the lab. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and almost forgot about it completely. He took it out and looked at the most recent message he had received.

_Come by my office today? No nagging, I promise. – JW_

Sherlock smiled to himself a bit before he walked towards the hospital showers first. He snuck in and out quickly and quietly, the only evidence being his damp hair that was combed back. He changed his attire and then started towards John's office to meet with him, his heart beating erratically in his chest at the mere thought of being around the doctor and hearing his voice again.

He knocked on the door when he arrived at it, taking a deep breath.

"Yeah, come on in!"

Sherlock opened the door and closed it behind him before he nodded to John Watson who sat behind his desk, smiling warmly at the young detective. "Good afternoon, doctor."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock. How are you doing?"

Sherlock half shrugged. "All right, I suppose. I'm not ill, no broken bones, nothing of that nature…"

John leaned back in his chair and nodded encouragingly. "That's… fantastic, Sherlock, but… what about the other things we discussed? Like your depression. How is that doing? Are you feeling better? Worse?"

The younger man looked at John curiously. "Interesting that you would ask those kinds of questions, John. You're not a psychiatrist."

John folded his hands over his knee and cocked his head slightly to the side, still smiling. "True, but that doesn't mean I can't take an interest in your life. As your doctor, I care about your well-being and we can still talk. There's still a doctor/patient confidentiality rule between us."

Sherlock traced his bottom lip tentatively with his finger in thought. It had been one thing to tell Molly about his skeletons but he cared about John Watson more than he could let on. He risked John believing he was insane if he confessed his dirty secrets to him. He wanted to pretend he was at least halfway normal to this man, and telling him about his self-injury would not help his case.

"My depression's manageable. It doesn't necessarily stop me from participating in activities I normally do. I still read and visit my brother…"

"And play your violin?" offered John with an unreadable expression on his face.

Sherlock nodded once, having almost forgotten his own lie. "Yes, and play my violin," Sherlock echoed. He was quiet for a bit before he searched the doctor's face. "Are you taking anything for your night terrors?"

John straightened up in his chair and look uneasily at Sherlock. "H-How did you know I have night terrors?"

"The dark circles under your eyes. They're faint but they're still visible. Perhaps you should be the one taking medication to help you sleep. If you'd like, I can offer you my sleeping pills, doctor?" The younger man offered.

John chuckled now and gave Sherlock a small smile. "Thank you, but… I'll be all right. Have you been taking the pills I've prescribed for you then?"

Sherlock sighed, already wanting to be done talking about this. He felt his heart skip a beat as he looked at the doctor, however, finding himself unable to say something curt and rude. "Yes, I have. I've been sleeping wonderfully," Sherlock found himself lying again.

John looked a bit disappointed, as if he could tell that Sherlock was lying, but he didn't let on if he knew. He just nodded again. "Sherlock," he began now. "The offer to move in with me still stands, if you… you know, need a place to stay. No questions asked."

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip and pursed his lips together before he glanced out the window. "As I've told you before, John, I have a place and anyway, I doubt your flat would have much room for myself and my belongings."

"Why do you say that?"

Sherlock turned back to face the doctor. "Well, from what I know about flats in that section of the city, they're mostly one bedroom, one bath, with very limited space. I'd end up sleeping on the couch and before you say anything, I wouldn't dream of letting you sleep on your own couch when you have a perfectly sustainable bed. Once again, I thank you for the offer, John, but I believe it's for the best if I'm on my own… in my own place," he added after a moment.

John Watson looked tense, to the point of frustrated but he didn't let it out on Sherlock. His eyes became filled with concern. "You know, I have been interested in finding another flat, closer to the hospital. Maybe if I'm able to find one for rent, you might consider having me for a flat mate?"

"I already have a place…"

"It's just a thought, Sherlock. You wouldn't have to help me pay anything for the first month. I have enough saved up to pay for your share as well. I just want… to maybe make sure you're okay," John searched his face desperately, almost sadly.

Sherlock swallowed hard, sure that John could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage. He slid his hands anxiously over his knees and smiled unsurely. "I… don't believe that would be a good idea. You wouldn't want me for a flat mate. I can talk for hours and days. I smoke as well as perform casual experiments. I believe my habits would just annoy you."

It seemed better to tell John this rather than what his actual downfalls were. He would tell the doctor about his own vices, but in due time. If John were dead set on finding a flat for the two of them, Sherlock wouldn't stand in his way any longer.

John just smiled softly and shrugged. "That wouldn't bother me, Sherlock. I know this all might seem… a bit ridiculous since I'm your doctor but I can promise you that wouldn't affect any business or personal areas between the two of us. The agreement still stays intact."

Sherlock nodded, listening to him. He sighed to himself and forced a small smile. "Right, well… you do that then, and let me know if anything turns up for you. If that's all you wanted to discuss, I believe I should be on my way now."

He stood up and grabbed his backpack again when John held his hand out to him. "I'll keep in contact. Be well…"

Sherlock looked at John's hand for several moments before he reached out and shook it quickly, feeling sparks ignite between their skin. He released his hand then and cleared his throat before he nodded to John and then quickly disappeared out of his office.

It wasn't anything personal; he did, in fact, like this doctor. He must come off as a bit rude but he didn't know how to make himself more welcoming. This man was several years older than himself and thus it almost felt like another Lestrade in his life, and he knew that doctors probably heard all kinds of things about people hurting themselves or doing drugs or what have you, but there was something about John that made Sherlock feel almost scared to open up about that part of his life. It seemed like another realm entirely.

What would happen if John knew? Surely he would try to get as far away from Sherlock as possible, or at least kick him out of the flat. Maybe he would think the young detective as absolutely mad and send him somewhere to be locked up in a padded cell. What _could _happen to Sherlock? He didn't even want to think about it, so he chose not to.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

He left the hospital and started towards his guardian's flat at 221B but then stopped dead on the sidewalk, nearly causing someone else to run into his back.

No, he couldn't go back there. Greg Lestrade would harp on him about everything under the sun and nothing would change. He couldn't bring himself to go back home. He didn't even have a home anymore. If he went back to Baker Street, then he would just be showing the Detective Inspector that he had been right about Sherlock and that he needed someone to take care of him.

Sherlock looked around him, taking in his surroundings. He was close by to his other stomping grounds where he had disappeared to while growing up under Lestrade's thumb. He walked a bit further down the street until he recognized the narrow alleyway that lead into a deeper and wider area where other unfortunate souls had their makeshift tents pitched just so to help keep the rain off of them.

He made his way quickly down the alleyway until he came to a tented area that was a bit more private and closed off. This was where he used to stay when Lestrade drove him up the wall and around the bend. This had been his place of sanctuary. Sherlock dropped his backpack and crawled into the closed off tent before he lay down on the musty blankets inside. They didn't seem to matter, though. He had a place he could stay for the time being where he wouldn't bother anyone else. He could hear the rain beginning to hit the tent outside and watched the rain droplets fall down and then suddenly, he felt something warm staining his face.

Sherlock reached up hesitantly and touched his cheek with his fingers before pulling them away and noticing tears evaporating into his skin. He was _crying._

But why? What was he crying about? He didn't even know… he took a moment to gather everything he was feeling right now and concluded that it was his depression starting to hit him again. He lay down and cried silently, for no real reason at all other than the fact he was suddenly depressed.

Then he remembered something. He dug into his bag and pulled out his syringe along with a new bottle of morphine and then rolled up his sleeve where past decisions marked his forearm. Sherlock tapped his vein hard until he could see it protruding in his arm and pushed down on the plunger part of the syringe, letting the clear mixture disappear into his bloodstream.

Almost instantly, he felt relief overwhelm him and his body soon became tired, his limbs numb and heavy as he made a pillow out of his knapsack and closed his eyes. He didn't need the pills when he had the morphine and for better or worse, it helped his depression; it made him sleep through it so he didn't have to feel the debilitating sorrow that came with it. Sherlock let his body relax as he drifted off to sleep, only the doctor still on his last lingering thoughts.


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock woke up the next morning to the sound of rain hitting his tent in rhythmic taps, as if it were knocking to be let inside. He reluctantly opened his eyes and sighed internally, feeling like it was actually painful to be awake.

The morphine had helped him sleep for nine hours but that hadn't meant he was feeling well-rested. On the contrary, he felt as if he hadn't slept at all, for all the good the drug had done him. The young man's mind seemed slow and foggy, another side-effect from the morphine, no doubt. This wouldn't do at all.

He needed stimulation. He needed to be able to think quickly and accurately. He needed something to get his mind moving.

And he knew what he needed. He debated somehow getting what he needed off of one of the other homeless folk around him but then he decided against it; he didn't have much money, certainly not enough to buy one gram of cocaine. This thought started to depress him further, and only reminded him how worthless he really was.

He took out his phone and then started to text Molly Hooper.

_If possible, meet me at Speedy's on your lunch break for coffee. I need you your assistance with something._

After he sent that text, he started a fresh one to Lestrade.

_Meet me at Speedy's in ten minutes? Bring cases. Please._

Sherlock hesitated before he forced his finger to press the send button. He despised needing other people, especially someone who had known him for so many years. He needed stimulation though and this seemed better than stealing drugs off of random, unpredictable junkies.

He got changed quickly inside the tent, making sure to slap on two nicotine patches on his clean forearm, and then made his way into Speedy's. He sat down at one of the tables near the window so he could feel at least semi-relaxed by the rain while he waited for Lestrade.

It wasn't long until he could feel the nicotine enter his bloodstream, sending his brain messages of satisfaction as it helped to kick it into another gear.

"Well I'm here, Sherlock… what's this about then?"

The detective looked over to see the DI sitting in front of him with two coffees and reached over to grab one.

Good, more stimulants.

"Did you bring the cases?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Greg's question.

Lestrade searched his ward's face with concern before he nodded and then pulled out at least four manila folders from his briefcase and placed it on the table. "These are cases that have either gone cold or there wasn't enough evidence to solve the case. They're all yours. Sherlock," Lestrade added after a short pause. "Is everything… all right? You're sleeping? Eating?"

Sherlock sighed and started looking through the folders, scanning each one. "Yes."

There was an uncomfortable silence for several minutes and Lestrade seemed to be pretending it wasn't there by casually sipping his coffee. Sherlock could feel the Detective Inspector's eyes on him though.

"What?" he asked curtly, impatiently, his eyes still fixated on the cases.

Lestrade scratched his jaw before he cleared his throat and leaned forward, looking into his eyes. "Your brother's been calling me twice a day since you left, you know."

"Oh?"

"He's worried about you. He keeps asking me if you're still doing drugs."

Sherlock finally lifted his eyes from the pages and looked at his guardian. He wet his lips a bit anxiously now. "What did you tell him?"

"What do you think I told him, Sherlock? I told him that you moved out so I couldn't be certain whether you were getting high or not and that he should ask you himself!"

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock growled, straightening up. "Would it kill you to lie for me, Lestrade? Isn't that one of those _things_ people do for each other?"

Greg looked at him in almost disbelief. "No, Sherlock! Not when it comes to life-threatening situations! If I can't help you, maybe your brother can!"

Sherlock shook his head and scoffed in disgust. "Stop being overly dramatic, Lestrade. I'm not in a…" He rolled his eyes. "Life threatening situation… and my brother won't help me by getting me locked up in some rehabilitation center!"

Greg Lestrade sighed and sat back in his chair, resigned. "I'm just trying to do you a favor, Sherlock. I'm trying to help you!"

The younger man chewed on his bottom lip. "You're not doing me any favors by telling Mycroft the truth about me! You're only making things worse for me. I asked you to do one thing for me before I left and you couldn't even do that! _God_, what the hell good are you?"

Lestrade tensed up now and set his jaw impatiently. He looked around at the eyes that were now staring at them. "Listen, Sherlock… you want to pretend that you're all alone in this but you're bloody not and you'd do well to remember that! Why is it such a crime that I want to keep you alive?"

Sherlock suddenly kicked the stand of the table and let out a groan of frustration. "Maybe because I don't want to be alive!" he yelled before even thinking the words out first.

As soon as they escaped his lips, he was surprised that he only half regretted the words. There was a part of Sherlock that truly felt his situation had become so miserable and so dire that he would rather be dead than jonesing for his next fix and using morphine to sleep at night. He forced himself to look up and see Lestrade's reaction.

The DI seemed speechless for a long time before he rubbed his forehead tensely. "This is exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about. _This _is why I'm so worried about you. Are you still seeing the doctor?"

"Not as if it's of any relevance to this matter but yes, I am still talking to him," Sherlock answered in a softer, weaker, voice.

"It's pretty bleeding relevant to me, Sherlock. If you would just talk to him about all of this; the drug use, the depression, the… suicidal thoughts, maybe he could help you somehow – "

Sherlock hit the table angrily again, this time with his fist. "Damn it, Lestrade! He's not a damn psychiatrist! Talking to him won't do anything except embarrass the both of us and waste his time! It's absurd you would even suggest such a thing!"

Lestrade clenched his jaw again and gave Sherlock a dark look now. "Calm yourself, Sherlock. Just… try and relax, all right? I don't mean to upset you. It was merely a suggestion." He looked back up at the young man and sighed to himself. "Jesus, Sherlock. Are you high right now?"

His pupils must be dilated. He self-consciously rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and took a drink of his coffee. "I took some morphine last night and I have nicotine patches on right now. I doubt that's what's making me so angry though."

Lestrade scoffed and chuckled without humor. "I bet the reason you're so angry is because you're an addict in need of another fix, a stronger one. I know what you're thinking, Sherlock; don't even think about it. Stop thinking about it."

"Oh come off it, Lestrade! You don't have any idea what I'm thinking about right now!"

"I might not be a bloody genius like you but I know about junkies, and considering I lived with one for a handful of years, I have a pretty good idea what one looks like! Morphine isn't enough anymore for you and because you haven't had any cases in a while, you're in need of stimulation. You'll take it in doses of nicotine, in caffeine, and in cocaine. I know you better than you know yourself, Sherlock. You can fool everyone else but you can't fool me," Lestrade took a long drink of his coffee.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, despising how Greg Lestrade was right about this. About him. This wasn't how things were supposed to work. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be the one to know more about anyone else. He didn't like this. It grated him and split his nerves apart.

"I need to go. I have somewhere else I need to be…" Sherlock stood up and grabbed his backpack just as he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

"I hope that somewhere else isn't a back alley somewhere, Sherlock…" Lestrade replied in a warning tone. "Do us both a favor and stay out of trouble. Do you understand? I don't want to pick you up off the street or worse, visit your body in a morgue somewhere."

Sherlock swallowed hard, instantly understanding the double meaning of his words. Lestrade didn't want to find him dead either by drugs or by suicide. "I'll try my best."

Lestrade just nodded, maybe out of understanding or actual belief, but he didn't make any more effort to persuade Sherlock. The detective left Speedy's, no longer wishing to be inside the warm café but out in the cold air as it rained.

He walked until he didn't realize where exactly it was he was going but then found himself walking towards the hospital, ignoring the passing cars and people. He needed Molly but he wasn't sure for what yet. He no longer wished for her to meet him at Speedy's for lunch. Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what he wanted but he needed someone to talk to.

He quickly stuffed the cases he was holding in his hand into the backpack with the rest of his life. He entered the hospital and quickly headed towards the Pathology labs, only momentarily considering going to John's office. He forced his legs to walk upstairs until he entered it, out of breath and soaking wet.

Once he entered the dimly lit room, he felt too much and not enough at the same time. He was feeling overwhelming depression and numbness while his heart raced in his chest while there was a panic he couldn't decipher.

Why was he panicking?

Was it because of the nicotine and caffeine at the same time? No, he had done this before and had been fine.

It couldn't be the morphine either; that would slow his heart down.

His breathing was erratic to the point where he was genuinely concerned he was going to have a heart attack. He glanced over, about to call out for Molly, when he watched her drop everything she was working on and run over to him in her flats.

"Sherlock? What's going on? Are you all right? Here, sit down…" Molly pulled a chair over to him and then gently placed her hands on his back and shoulders as she helped him to sit.

Sherlock sat down but it did nothing to help his current state. He could feel the room begin to spin around him as pain attacked his chest. "W-What's happening… t-to me…?"

Molly looked surprisingly calm for the current situation and he felt like he had to hand it to her. She looked down at him with reassuring eyes. "Sherlock, you're having a panic attack. You need to breathe though. I know that sounds silly right now but it's important you get oxygen to your brain or else you're going to pass out, okay?"

Sherlock nodded quickly, already feeling lightheaded. "W-What should I-I do…?"

Molly Hooper remained calm. "Close your eyes and then inhale deeply through your nose, hold it for several seconds, and then slowly exhale through your mouth. So start doing that and I'm going to get you a cool washcloth."

Sherlock felt the slight draft of her leaving his side to go over to a sink but he obeyed her orders. He closed his eyes, concentrating on a figure that had the potential to calm him, and then inhaled, holding it until he felt like he could no longer. Then, he exhaled, slowly letting the breath out through his mouth. He repeated this action until he felt like he had control again.

Molly came back and placed a wet washcloth on Sherlock's forehead and held it before she gently dabbed at it. "That's wonderful, Sherlock. Just keep doing that. You're going to be okay. I'm right here…"

Sherlock felt obscenely patronized in this moment but figured that this was what normal people do to calm down those in distress. Perhaps talking to someone like they were a child somehow calmed them down. He opened his eyes but continued the breathing pattern until he felt the room stop spinning. Then, he looked up at her.

"I-I'm not sure why that happened. I've never had a… panic attack before."

Molly gave him a small smile before half-shrugging. "It happens sometimes to people. I've had them before. Are you feeling particularly stressed out or anxious about anything?"

Sherlock nodded and then looked down at his bony fingers, silent for a bit. "I just had an argument with Lestrade, the DI at Scotland Yard. He knows about my drug habits too and he's worried about my usage I suppose."

Molly started to absentmindedly play with a loose string on her sleeve. "_Are _you using? I mean, have you used recently?"

"I used last night, so I could sleep," Sherlock answered truthfully. There was no use lying to her when she knew about his skeletons now. "I have nicotine patches on now."

Molly looked at him curiously but nodded in acknowledgement. "Do… do you need me to get you anything? Err… do you need a drug test next or something?"

_She was going to help him pass it. _

Upon realizing this, Sherlock couldn't help but feel a sense of trust towards her as well as gratefulness. She would risk her job to help him.

"No, Molly. I don't need that but thank you anyway. I might take a rain check on that offer for the future, however," Sherlock smirked slightly.

Molly nodded, smiling warmly. "So then, where are you off to now? Do you even have a job or do you just like to loiter around the hospital?"

Sherlock shrugged before he rolled up his sleeve and ripped off the nicotine patches. His head was still dizzy from the panic attack; maybe now wasn't the best time to be forcing his mind to think a mile a minute. "I have cases that Lestrade has me work on. That's my job and I don't really get paid for it or anything. I enjoy solving them. I like puzzles."

Molly nodded, listening to Sherlock. "Do you work on the cases while you're… while you're high?"

"No," Sherlock said, taking out his phone, remembering he had felt it buzz earlier. "I usually like to have cases to solve when I'm unable to get my hands on anything. You… texted me earlier…"

Molly looked confused at first but then the confusion disappeared from her eyes. "Oh, right. Yes, I did but it doesn't really matter now. It just said that I would meet you for lunch."

Sherlock pocketed his phone. "That reminds me; if it's all the same to you, I would like it if we didn't go to Speedy's for lunch. I was thinking we would just have lunch here, at the hospital. Would you be opposed to that?"

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, contemplating. "No, that's fine. What made you change your mind though?"

"I just need to talk to someone here at the hospital and it just saves time if I'm already here."

Molly's eyes shone brightly with interest. "Oh, who do you need to meet?"

Sherlock now gave Molly a look that seemed to be the answer to the question. There were just some things he wanted to keep a secret. There was no doubt she knew John, working at the hospital, and for all she knew, the two of them, Sherlock and John, could just be friends. There was no particular reason why he didn't want her to find out he was seeing John, and he couldn't even pinpoint a reason no to tell her.

It just didn't feel right to him.

"I-I'm sorry," Molly stammered. "I shouldn't have asked that. It's none of my business."

Sherlock couldn't explain why but he felt a soft spot for nervous, stammering Molly Hooper. She was as naïve and timid, like a baby deer. "It's perfectly fine, Molly. I would just prefer not to disclose all the details. I feel like I must keep some things secret."

She nodded now and gave him a small smile. "Right… well, I should get back to work again, I suppose. I'll meet you in the cafeteria for lunch later?" Once Sherlock nodded once in affirmation, she walked back behind a counter and disappeared at one of the stations.

Sherlock slowly stood up and exited the labs before he looked around cautiously and ducked quickly into one of the empty rooms. He shut the door quietly and started to rummage in one of the drawers.

Morphine. _No, he was still good on that._

Syringes. _No, his were still clean._

Adrenaline. _Bingo. _

He pocketed two small containers of them. It was horrible; he was planning ahead for the worst case scenario; they would be in case he took too much heroin or cocaine and it stopped his heart. Of course he would tell Molly ahead of time that he had both clean needles as well as bottles of adrenaline, both of which he would keep in his backpack.

Better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them.

It was a grim way to think but it was smart in its own way too. Sherlock shut the drawer and then stealthily left the room before he headed for John's office.

He knocked gently on the oak door but didn't receive a reply.

He knocked again and waited.

Sherlock jiggled the handle and found it unlocked. He slinked inside before closing the door again and then walked over to the doctor's desk, examining it.

_No pictures of a girlfriend or boyfriend. _

_No kids._

_A picture of a platoon in front of a large tent. _

_Everything was neatly stacked and in order. Nothing was out of place._

Sherlock pulled open the drawer and glanced through it. Nothing odd or unusual. He closed it again, half disappointed, before he walked back over to the chair and sat down in it.

Fifteen minutes passed until he heard the office door swing open and close again.

"Sherlock!" a startled John Watson exclaimed in surprise. "I… didn't know you would be coming today…"

"Well of course you didn't. I didn't let you know. Busy morning?"

John looked a bit uneasily in Sherlock's direction before he sat down in his chair and made himself comfortable. "Err… yeah, a bit. Did you want to talk about something in particular or did you just want to give me a heart attack?" John chuckled a bit, obviously to make Sherlock feel comfortable.

The young man shrugged and then something came to his mind. "What sorts of things can set off a panic attack?"

John leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, and looked interestedly at Sherlock now. "Did you have a panic attack, Sherlock?"

"Obviously."

John wrote something down before he cleared his throat. "Well, anything that can disrupt your routine might set one off. A traumatic event, a fight with a friend even, bad memories… do you want to talk about this?"

Sherlock bit his lip, unsure why he had brought up the question to John in the first place. He was just putting himself out there now. He couldn't even blame anyone for this except himself. "I just… I had a fight earlier with my guardian or rather, ex-guardian. He was worried about my welfare and I told him he had nothing to worry about but… it was all rather pointless."

John searched Sherlock's eyes and for a moment, he felt his heart flutter with no explanation. "Does he have reason to worry about your welfare?"

_Yes._

"No. Of course not," Sherlock lied through his teeth. He shifted in his seat, deciding to change the subject. "How are you doing, John? I feel selfish talking about myself to you all the time."

John set his pen down and relaxed in his chair now, smiling. "Well, I'm doing all right I suppose. Not much has happened since we talked last. I went home after work, then woke up the next morning and now her I am. I must sound so boring to you…"

_Yes, incredibly._

"No, of course not. It's a nice change actually, hearing someone else talk about their own life instead of worrying about mine," Sherlock smirked. "Oh, have you found that flat yet?"

"Why? Have you given it a second thought about renting with me?" John chuckled.

Sherlock shrugged, unsure whether or not he had given it thought at all. After having talked to Lestrade, though, it didn't seem like a bad idea to have a place he could actually go home to.

Hot showers.

A solid roof over his head instead of a tent.

Food whenever he wanted it.

And a doctor when he needed it.

All of it seemed pretty welcoming for Sherlock. Maybe it wouldn't be a completely terrible idea.

"Perhaps. Would you still be open to paying my share of the rent for the first month?"

John nodded almost excitedly now, clearly having difficulty containing himself. "I'll call about it after work and get back to you. Obviously you have my number still. Text me in the morning tomorrow and I'll let you know how it went."

"Sounds like a plan." Sherlock sighed tiredly to himself before he rubbed his palms on his pants in anxiety.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Sherlock? You seem a bit tense."

_You could help me but you might lose your job for it. _

Sherlock pushed down his thoughts and internally punished himself for them. "No, John. I'll be okay. I just didn't sleep well last night."

"Are you taking anything to help you sleep? Or do you have insomnia still?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I have sedatives to help me. I just… haven't taken them, but I believe tonight I will."

John Watson smiled and nodded. "Good, you best. I'd hate for you to be suffering from this once we get the flat together…"

Sherlock knew that the doctor was kidding but there was a part of him that really did hope that the insomnia was only temporary. He had read somewhere that some individuals who suffered from depression also had to deal with insomnia.

There were so many things that would make or break sharing the flat with this man, and he wanted this to be a good experience for both of them. John barely knew him, didn't know all his secrets and faults, and yet he was more than willing to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. He didn't want to let John down like he did everyone else around him.

This thought suddenly penetrated his thoughts and his bones began to ache. He swallowed back the impending sorrow he knew was coming and glanced at the clock, relieved he'd be meeting with Molly soon for lunch.


End file.
